Come, Cnidian, Paphian Venus, come,Thy well-beloved Cyprus spurn,Haste, where for thee in Glycera's homeSweet odours burn.Bring too thy Cupid, glowing warm,Graces and Nymphs, unzoned and free,And Youth, that lacking thee lacks charm,And Mercury.What blessing shall the bard entreatThe god he hallows, as he poursThe winecup? Not the mounds of wheatThat load Sardinian threshing floors;Not Indian gold or ivory—no,Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray,Nor fields that Liris, still and slow,Is eating, unperceived, away.