Classic Poem

A jar have I, my Phyllis, filled with wine
Of Alban vintage, nine years old and more,
And parsley in my garden wreaths to twine,
And goodly store

Of ivy to adorn your knotted hair.
The house is bright with silver; with green spray
Festooned, the altar bids no longer spare
A lamb to slay.

All here is in a bustle, hurrying fast
Hither and thither maids and lackeys crowd.
The roaring fires upwhirl and roofward cast
A sooty cloud.

But should you ask what these rejoicings mean
Know you are called to honour April's Ides,
Day that the month of Venus, sea-born queen,
Midway divides.

I to this birthday more observance owe
Almost than to my own; for 'tis from hence
The years o'er my Maecenas' head that flow
Their course commence.

Telephus, whom you long for, is above
Your sphere. A girl too, rich and gay withal,
Has caught and holds him fast in chains of love
Her willing thrall.

Scorched Phaethon serves ambitious hopes to fright;
And the stern warning of the winged steed,
That grudged to bear Bellerophon, earth-born knight,
Bids you take heed

Only at what befits your rank to aim,
In hope, just bounds that passes, sin to see,
And shun ill-sorted match. Come then, last flame
Of mine to be—

For from henceforth none else shall ever thrill
My heart with love. Come, and be taught the airs
That your dear voice may render. Music still
Will ease black cares.