Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe;
  • Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent,
  • Beneath my laurel; nor be slow
  • To drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.
  • Lethe's true draught is Massic wine;
  • Fill high the goblet; pour out free
  • Rich streams of unguent. Who will twine
  • The hasty wreath from myrtle-tree
  • Or parsley? Whom will Venus seat
  • Chairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?
  • Then I'll be sober. O, 'tis sweet
  • To 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 lies
  • Have pledged you deepest, lovelier far
  • You sparkle forth, of all young eyes
  • The ruling star.