Here is a cask of Alban, moreThan nine years old: here grows for youGreen parsley, Phyllis, and good storeOf ivy too(Wreathed ivy suits your hair, you know):The plate shines bright: the altar, strew'dWith vervain, hungers for the flowOf lambkin's blood.There's stir among the serving folk;They bustle, bustle, boy and girl;The flickering flames send up the smokeIn many a curl.But why, you ask, this special cheer?We celebrate the feast of Ides,Which April's month, to Venus dear,In twain divides.O, 'tis a day for reverence,E'en my own birthday scarce so dear,For my Maecenas counts from thenceEach added year.