University of Virginia Library

ODE XVIII. To Quintilius Varus.

On Tibur's Shore new Vineyards plant,
For 'tis the only Tree we want;
The Gods ne'er made a nobler Tree!
The Gods love drunken Souls like me.
They have a thousand Plagues in store
For sober Sots, whom Cares devour.
At Sight of Bacchus, Sorrows fly,
Spleen vanishes, and Vapours die.
Who in his Cups e'er made Complaint
Of pinching Penury and Want?
Or durst recite in rueful Strain
The Toils he bore the last Campaign?
When sparkling Bowls our Hours improve:
Then all our Talk is Wine and Love.
But still the Centaurs bloody War
Bids us of Strife and Blows take Care;
We know what Bacchus did in Thrace,
Nor will too far indulge the Glass.
Let Reason still keep in its Light,
And still distinguish Wrong from Right.
God of the Grape, I'll wisely use
Thy heav'nly Gifts, nor will disclose
Thy sacred Rites; do thou asswage
My burning Soul, and curb thy Rage:
Lest to new hateful Crimes I run:
Lest Vanity seize Reason's Throne,
And wretched I to open Day
The Secrets of the Night betray,
And my Heart transparent grow,
Clear as the Glass, that makes it so.