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.O grant me, Phoebus, calm content,Strength unimpaird, a mind entire,Old age without dishonour spent,Nor unbefriended by the lyre!They call;—if aught in shady dellWe twain have warbled, to remainLong months or years, now breathe, my shell,A Roman strain,