Though true it be that none with surer seatO'er Mars's grassy turf is seen to ride,Nor any swims so fleetAdown the Tuscan tide,Yet keep each evening door and window barr'd;Look not abroad when music strikes up shrill,And though he call you hard,Remain obdurate still.The first of March! a man unwed!What can these flowers, this censer mean?Or what these embers, glowing redOn sods of green?You ask, in either language skill'd!A feast I vow'd to Bacchus free,A white he-goat, when all but kill'dBy falling tree.So, when that holyday comes round,It sees me still the rosin clearFrom this my wine-jar, first embrown'dIn Tullus' year.