Telling of Argos' steeds, Mycenae's gold.For me stern Sparta forges no such spell,No, nor Larissa's plain of richest mould,As bright Albunea echoing from her cell.O headlong Anio! O Tiburnian groves,And orchards saturate with shifting streams!Look how the clear fresh south from heaven removesThe tempest, nor with rain perpetual teems!You too be wise, my Plancus: life's worst cloudWill melt in air, by mellow wine allay'd,Dwell you in camps, with glittering banners proud,Or 'neath your Tibur's canopy of shade.