You can tell me the years between
Inachus and Codrus, who wasn’t afraid to
die for his country, Aeacus’
line, and the fights by the walls at sacred Troy:
 
but you can’t say what price we’ll pay
for a jar of Chian wine, who’ll heat the water,
or under whose roof, at what time,
I can escape at last from Paelignian cold.
 
Don’t wait: drink to the new moon, boy,
to the midnight hour, to the augur, Murena:
the wine is mixed in three measures,
or nine, depending which of the two is fitting.
 
The poet, inspired, who’s in love
with the odd-numbered Muses, will ask for three times
three: fearing our quarrels, the Grace,
who’s hand in hand with her naked sisters, forbids
 
more than triple. I like to rave:
why have the blasts of the Berecyntian flute
fallen silent? Why is the pipe
hanging there speechless, next door to the speechless lyre?
 
I dislike those hands that refrain:
scatter rose petals: and let envious Lycus
hear our demented noise-making,
and the girl who’s next door, who won’t suit old Lycus.
 
Ripe Rhode is searching for you,
Telephus, you with the glistening hair, oh you,
who are like the pure evening star:
while a slow love, for Glycera, has me on fire.