The first of March! a man unwed!What can these flowers, this censer mean?Or what these embers, glowing redOn sods of green?You ask, in either language skill'd!A feast I vow'd to Bacchus free,A white he-goat, when all but kill'dBy falling tree.So, when that holyday comes round,It sees me still the rosin clearFrom this my wine-jar, first embrown'dIn Tullus' year.