The Muses love me: fear and grief,The winds may blow them to the sea;Who quail before the wintry chiefOf Scythia's realm, is nought to me.What cloud o'er Tiridates lowers,I care not, I. O, nymph divineOf virgin springs, with sunniest flowersA chaplet for my Lamia twine,Pimplea sweet! my praise were vainWithout thee. String this maiden lyre,Attune for him the Lesbian strain,O goddess, with thy sister quire!

What, fight with cups that should give joy?'Tis barbarous; leave such savage waysTo Thracians. Bacchus, shamefaced boy,Is blushing at your bloody frays.The Median sabre! lights and wine!Was stranger contrast ever seen?Cease, cease this brawling, comrades mine,And still upon your elbows lean.