Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe;Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent,Beneath my laurel; nor be slowTo drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.Lethe's true draught is Massic wine;Fill high the goblet; pour out freeRich streams of unguent. Who will twineThe hasty wreath from myrtle-treeOr parsley? Whom will Venus seatChairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?Then I'll be sober. O, 'tis sweetTo fool, when friends come home again!

Had chastisement for perjured truth,Barine, mark'd you with a curse—Did one wry nail, or one black tooth,But make you worse—I'd trust you; but, when plighted liesHave pledged you deepest, lovelier farYou sparkle forth, of all young eyesThe ruling star.