After Horace Odes, 4, 11
Phyllis, this jar of Alban wine is nine years old (at least!);
there’s parsley in the garden, good for weaving garlands,
and lots of ivy: you can tie your hair back; you’ll look beautiful.
The silver’s polished, and the altar’s dressed with holy leaves;
it only needs the lamb we’ll sacrifice to splatter it with blood.
The household’s busy busy, with my boys and girls all rushing in and out;
black smoke rolls up the chimney from the leaping flames.
In case you’re wondering what the party is you’ve been invited to:
April, the month of Venus, born from the waves, is halfway through.
Today’s a special day: more special, almost, than my own birthday. Why?
From dawn today my friend Maecenas adds another year to his abundant store.
Now listen. You fancy Telephus, I know. But he’s beyond you.
He’s been tied down by another girl, who’s rich and sexy; and he likes it.
You know how Phaëton burnt his fingers
when he drove his father’s chariot; be warned.
Or what about Bellerophon,
who came a cropper riding wingèd Pegasus?
He learnt a painful lesson, but it brought him down to earth.
Be realistic. He’s not right for you.
Don’t eat your heart out over someone you can’t have.
Come here. You’re not my latest lover; you’re my last.
No other woman, after you, could light my fire.
So how about a song? You’ve got a gorgeous voice.
What do you say? You know how singing drives the blues away.
