Bring too thy Cupid, glowing warm,Graces and Nymphs, unzoned and free,And Youth, that lacking thee lacks charm,And Mercury.What blessing shall the bard entreatThe god he hallows, as he poursThe winecup? Not the mounds of wheatThat load Sardinian threshing floors;Not Indian gold or ivory—no,Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray,Nor fields that Liris, still and slow,Is eating, unperceived, away.Let those whose fate allows them trainCalenum's vine; let trader boldFrom golden cups rich liquor drainFor wares of Syria bought and sold,Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a yearHe comes and goes across the brineUndamaged. I in plenty hereOn endives, mallows, succory dine.