Ho, there! wine to moonrise, wineTo midnight, wine to our new augur too!Nine to three or three to nine,As each man pleases, makes proportion true.Who the uneven Muses loves,Will fire his dizzy brain with three times three;Three once told the Grace approves;She with her two bright sisters, gay and free,Shrinks, as maiden should, from strife:But I'm for madness. What has dull'd the fireOf the Berecyntian fife?Why hangs the flute in silence with the lyre?Out on niggard-handed boys!Rain showers of roses; let old Lycus hear,Envious churl, our senseless noise,And she, our neighbour, his ill-sorted fere.You with your bright clustering hair,Your beauty, Telephus, like evening's sky,Rhoda loves, as young, as fair;I for my Glycera slowly, slowly die.