On horseback in his company, nor with uneven bitHis Gallic courser tame?Why dreads he yellow Tiber, as 'twould sully that fair frame?Like poison loathes the oil,His arms no longer black and blue with honourable toil,He who erewhile was knownFor quoit or javelin oft and oft beyond the limit thrown?Why skulks he, as they sayDid Thetis' son before the dawn of Ilion's fatal day,For fear the manly dressShould fling him into danger's arms, amid theLycian press?

See, how it stands, one pile of snow,Soracte! 'neath the pressure yieldIts groaning woods; the torrents' flowWith clear sharp ice is all congeal'd.Heap high the logs, and melt the cold,Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask,That mellower vintage, four-year-old,From out the cellar'd Sabine cask.