Horace, Ode 3.21

O nata mecum consule Manlio,

seu tu querelas sive geris iocos

seu rixam et insanos ameres

seu facilem, pia testa, somnum,

quocumque lectum nomine Massicum

servas, moveri digna bono die,

descende Corvino iubente

promere languidiora vina.

Non ille, quamquam Socraticis madet

sermonibus, te negleget horridus:

narratur et prisci Catonis

saepe mero caluisse virtus.

Tu lene tormentum ingenio admoves

plerumque duro; tu sapientium

curas et arcanum iocoso

consilium retegis Lyaeo;

tu spem reducis mentibus anxiis

viresque et addis cornua pauperi,

post te neque iratos trementi

regum apcies neque militum arma.

Te Liber et si laeta aderit Venus

senesque nodum slovere Gratiae

vivaeque producent lucernae,

dum rediens fugat astra Phoebus.

Oh pious jar, born by consul Manlius with me,

whether you carry complaints with jokes

or a fight and insane loves

or easy sleep,

You preserve select Massic wine under whatever

pretext, worthy to be brought down on an auspicious day,

descend by Corvinus ordering

to bring out a fainter wine.

That one, although he is wet with Socratic

speeches, will not be so austere as to neglect you:

and the virtue of ancient Cato is often said

to have grown warm with wine.

You apply a twist of the arm with an

unusually harsh nature; you reveal the problems

of philosophers and secret

debates to funny Bacchus;

you restore hope to anxious minds

and you increase strength and horns for the poor,

after you trembling at neither the angry crowns

of kings nor the weapons of soldiers.

Liber and Venus, if she arrives happy,

and the Graces slow to break their clasp

and the oil lamps alight will prolong you,

while Phoebus returning will chase away the stars.

Horace, Ode 1.27

Natis in usum laetitiae scyphis

pugnare Thracum est: tollite barbarum

morem, verecundumque Bacchum

sanguineis prohibete rixis.

Vino et lucernis Medus acinaces

immane quantum discrepat: impium

lenite clamorem, sodales,

et cubito remanete presso.

Vultis severi me quoque sumere

partem Falerni? Dicat Opuntiae

frater Megillae, quo beatus

vulnere, qua pereat sagitta.

Cessat voluntas? Non alia bibam

mercede. Quae te cumque comat Venus,

non erubescendis adurit

ignibus igenuoque semper

amore peccas. Quicquid habes, age,

depone tutis auribus. A miser,

quanta laborabas Charybdi,

digne puer meliore flamma!

Quae saga, quis te solvere Thessalis

magus venenis, quis poterit deus?

Vix illigatum te triformi

Pegasus expediet Chimaera.

It is Thracian to fight with bowls made for

the use of happiness: toss away the barbaric

custom, and defend modest Bacchus

from bloody battles.

How greatly the Persian dagger is at odds

with wine and oil lamps: calm the

impious shouting, friends,

and remain on your pressed elbows.

You wish me to likewise take up a part of

stern Falernian wine? The brother of

Opus will speak, by which wound he is

blessed, by which arrow he is wounded.

Does desire withdraw? I will drink for no other

price. With whom does Venus tame you,

she burns with no fires that you need blush

for and she always blunders with natural

love. Whatever you have, come on,

put it down on safe ears. Oh wretched one,

you labored over such a Charybdis,

boy worthy of better flame!

Which witch, which magician, which god is able

to release you from Thessalian poisons?

Pegasus will scarcely free you entangled

with a tri-formed Chimaera.

Horace, Ode 1.18

Nullam, Vare, sacra vite prius severis arborem

circa mite solum Tibruis et moenia Catili;

siccis omnia nam dura deus proposiuit neque

mordaces aliter diffugiunt sollicitundines.

Quis post vina gravem militiam aut pauperiem crepat?

Quis non te potius, Bacche pater, teque decens Venus?

Ac ne quis modici transiliat munera Liberi,

Centaurea monet cum Lapithis rixa super mero

debellata, menet Sithoniis non levis Euhius,

cum fas atque nefas exiguo fine libidinum

discernunt avidi. Non ego te, candide Bassareu,

invitum quatiam nec variis obsita frondibus

sub divum rapiam. Saeva tene cum Berecyntio

cornu tympana, quae subsequitur caecus Amor sui

et tollens vacuam plus nimio Gloria verticem

arcanique Fides prodiga, perlucidior vitro.

Plant no tree, Varus, before the sacred vine

around the soft ground of the Tibur and walls of Catilus;

a god has ordained everything difficult for dry people and

biting anxieties don't flee in any other way.

Who rattles on about serious military service or poverty after wine?

Who does not rattle on more about you, father Bacchus, and you, comely Venus?

And yet anyone abuses the gifts of moderate Bacchus,

the battle fought to the bitter end of the Centaurs over their wine with the

Lapiths warns, Bacchus not light with the Thracians warns,

when those greedy of desire discern lawful from sin

with a small limit. I do not shake you, white Bacchus,

unwilling, nor do I snatch by the light of day your

sacred things covered with various leaves. Hold savage

drums and the horn from Berecyntus, which blind self-love follows

and Glory raising an empty crown too high and

Faith wasteful of secrets, more transparent than glass.