To TELEPHUS. Ode XIX.
He blames him jestingly, that, writing antient Histories, he doth neglect Lifes pleasing comforts.
How long INACHUS Argive King,
E're Athens CODRUS rul'd, who bravely dy'd
Thou tell'st; ÆACUS stock dost sing,
Those Battails fought near sacred Troy beside.
What price large Tun we may acquire
O'th' Chios-grape, where washing Bath bestow'd;
At whose kind house, and when with Fire
Sharp Cold we shall dispel, no mention show'd.
Boy, fill cup strait for th' rising Moon,
For Midnight fill to th' Murene Augur's praise;
Third lastly pour: our Drink let run
In three choice Boals, or Nine, convenient ways:
The Poet rapt, who Muses loves,
Uneven Nine, may thrice three Cups require;
Three Graces though (least plenty moves
Disorder, broyls) 'bove Three forbid t'aspire;
That nak'd and harmless Sister-hood.
Now wilder Vein transports, why ceas'd the sound
Of Berecynthian Pipe so good?
Why hangs the Flute with Harp, to silence bound?
O're-thrifty Niggard hands I hate;
Fresh Roses spread, let envious Licus hear
Our mad-tun'd Noyse with squeamish Mate;
For Licus old let neighbour Girl give ear:
Spruce, gallant hayr'd, Friend TELEPHUS,
Thee, Match to th' bright resplendent Morning-star,
Ripe CLOE suits: whilst burneth us
GLYCERA's lingring Love, my scornful Fair.
