24
ODES OF HORACE.
XX.
Vile potabis.
NOT large my cups, nor rich my cheer,
This Sabine wine, which erst I seal'd,
That day the applauding theatre
Your welcome peal'd,
Dear knight Mæcenas! as 'twere fain
That your paternal river's banks,
And Vatican, in sportive strain,
Should echo thanks.
For you Calenian grapes are press'd,
And Cæcuban; these cups of mine
Falernum's bounty ne'er has bless'd,
Nor Formian vine.
XXI.
Dianam teneræ.
OF Dian's praises, tender maidens, tell;
Of Cynthus' unshorn god, young striplings, sing;
And bright Latona, well
Beloved of Heaven's high King.
Sing her that streams and silvan foliage loves,
Whate'er on Algidus' chill brow is seen,
In Erymanthian groves
Dark-leaved, or Cragus green.
