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,Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand,The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel,Or haply mooring to the strandHis batter'd keel,