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;A servant now, our ancient foe,The Spaniard, wears at last our chain;The Scythian half unbends his bowAnd quits the plain.Then fret not lest the state should ail;A private man such thoughts may spare;Enjoy the present hour's regale,And banish care.