Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe;Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent,Beneath my laurel; nor be slowTo drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.Lethe's true draught is Massic wine;Fill high the goblet; pour out freeRich streams of unguent. Who will twineThe hasty wreath from myrtle-treeOr parsley? Whom will Venus seatChairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?Then I'll be sober. O, 'tis sweetTo fool, when friends come home again!Had chastisement for perjured truth,Barine, mark'd you with a curse—Did one wry nail, or one black tooth,But make you worse—I'd trust you; but, when plighted liesHave pledged you deepest, lovelier farYou sparkle forth, of all young eyesThe ruling star.