XI.
Est mihi nonum.
HERE is a cask of Alban, more
Than nine years old: here grows for you
Green parsley, Phyllis, and good store
Of ivy too
(Wreathed ivy suits your hair, you know):
The plate shines bright: the altar, strew'd
With vervain, hungers for the flow
Of lambkin's blood.
There's stir among the serving folk;
They bustle, bustle, boy and girl;
The flickering flames send up the smoke
In many a curl.
Rut why, you ask, this special cheer?
We celebrate the feast of Ides,
Which April's month, to Venus dear,
In twain divides.
O, 'tis a day for reverence,
E'en my own birthday scarce so dear.
For my Mæcenas counts from thence
Each added year.
'Tis Telephus that you'd bewitch:
But he is of a high degree;
Bound to a lady fair and rich,
He is not free.
