ODE XXIII TO PHIDILE.
The gods are to be worshipped with clean hands, and conscience of a well-spent life.
If, heav'n-address'd, your hands and knees
At each new moon the gods appease,
And if a pig you slay, my rustic dame,
And offer your first-fruits with incense in the flame;
Your fruitful vineyard then shall scorn
The Afric blast, nor shall your corn
Be scarce or blighted—nor the fatal stroke,
Amidst th'autumnal plenty reach your little folk.
For the vow'd victim, that is fed
Where Algidum his snowy head
'Midst holms and oaks uprears, or in the mead
Of Alba, must beneath the pontiff's hatchet bleed.
If you the lares crown and clean,
With myrtle and with froth marine,
'Tis not requir'd that such as you and I
Should on our altar cause whole hecatombs to die,
If there a spotless hand you place,
A sumptuous victim, in that case,
Will not with heav'n more sure acceptance make,
Than mix'd with good intent the little salted cake.
