This day, true holyday to me,Shall banish care: I will not fearRude broils or bloody death to see,While Caesar's here.Quick, boy, the chaplets and the nard,And wine, that knew the Marsian war,If roving Spartacus have sparedA single jar.And bid Neaera come and trill,Her bright locks bound with careless art:If her rough porter cross your will,Why then depart.Soon palls the taste for noise and fray,When hair is white and leaves are sere:How had I fired in life's warm May,In Plancus' year!