O born in Manlius' year with me,Whate'er you bring us, plaint or jest,Or passion and wild revelry,Or, like a gentle wine-jar, rest;Howe'er men call your Massic juice,Its broaching claims a festal day;Come then; Corvinus bids produceA mellower wine, and I obey.Though steep'd in all Socratic loreHe will not slight you; do not fear.They say old Cato o'er and o'erWith wine his honest heart would cheer.Tough wits to your mild torture yieldTheir treasures; you unlock the soulOf wisdom and its stores conceal'd,Arm'd with Lyaeus' kind control.'Tis yours the drooping heart to heal;Your strength uplifts the poor man's horn;Inspired by you, the soldier's steel,The monarch's crown, he laughs to scorn,