First of trees in kindly soil at Tibur, Varus, be it thine
By the walls of Catilus to plant God's precious gift, the vine.
Hard the lot to him appointed from the wine-cup who forbears;
For no other way availeth to dispel heart-eating cares.
Who of poverty or warfare after wine sad tales will tell?
Father Bacchus, lovely Venus, 'tis on you the tongue will dwell.
Yet from o'er-indulgence Liber warns us by the deadly feud
Of the Lapithae and Centaurs, that on drunken brawl ensued,
By his wrath severe to Thracians, who divided wrong from right
Only by the thin partition of their sensual appetite.
Ne'er will I, fair Bassareus, on thee unbidden force my way,
Nor what chequered foliage covers drag into the light of day.
Hush the din of angry timbrels and the horn of Cybele,
Stay the rout that follows them, where blind Self-love will ever be,
With Vainglory, that upreareth far too high her empty pate,
And Ill-faith, as glass transparent, that of secret things will prate.