Proud of her spouse, the imperial fairMust thank the gods that shield from death;His sister too:—let matrons wearThe suppliant wreathFor daughters and for sons restored:Ye youths and damsels newly wed,Let decent awe restrain each wordBest left unsaid.This day, true holyday to me,Shall banish care: I will not fearRude broils or bloody death to see,While Caesar's here.Quick, boy, the chaplets and the nard,And wine, that knew the Marsian war,If roving Spartacus have sparedA single jar.And bid Neaera come and trill,Her bright locks bound with careless art:If her rough porter cross your will,Why then depart.