Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • What, fight with cups that should give joy?
  • 'Tis barbarous; leave such savage ways
  • To Thracians. Bacchus, shamefaced boy,
  • Is blushing at your bloody frays.
  • The Median sabre! lights and wine!
  • Was stranger contrast ever seen?
  • Cease, cease this brawling, comrades mine,
  • And still upon your elbows lean.
  • Well, shall I take a toper's part
  • Of fierce Falernian? let our guest,
  • Megilla's brother, say what dart
  • Gave the death-wound that makes him blest.
  • He hesitates? no other hire
  • Shall tempt my sober brains. Whate'er
  • The goddess tames you, no base fire
  • She kindles; 'tis some gentle fair
  • Allures you still. Come, tell me truth,
  • And trust my honour—That the name?
  • That wild Charybdis yours? Poor youth!
  • O, you deserved a better flame!