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.Come, crush one hundred cups for lifePreserved, Maecenas; keep till dayThe candles lit; let noise and strifeBe far away.Lay down that load of state-concern;The Dacian hosts are all o'erthrown;The Mede, that sought our overturn,Now seeks his own;