THE hostess, Syrian woman she, her head
With Grecian head-band bound and skilled to move
Her pliant waist beneath the castanet,
Is dancing lewd and drunken in her inn
Ill-famed, at elbow shaking creaking reeds.
"How doth it please a wearied man to be
Away in summer dust in preference
To lying here upon my drinking couch?
For here are gardens, cells, and drinking cups,
With roses, flutes, guitars, and arbour cool
With shady thatch. And see! beneath a grot
Arcadian is a girl who sweetly chats;
In shepherd's mouth a rustic pipe doth sound.
And flattish wine there is, but lately poured
From pitch-cemented cask, and, rustling by,
A stream of water runs with murmur hoarse.
And violets as well there are and wreaths
Of golden flowers, and purple garlands twined
With yellow rose, and lilies gathered from
Her virgin river which the daughter of
A river god in wicker baskets brought.
And cheeses small there are, which baskets made
Of rushes dry. And waxen are the plums
From autumn days. And chestnuts, nuts as well,
And apples blushing sweetly; Ceres here
Is dainty, so is Bacchus, so is Love.
And ruddy mulberries there are, and grapes
In heavy bunches, from its stalk as well
The greenish cucumber doth hang. The hut
Has got a guardian armed with willow scythe,
With monstrous groin, but terrible he's not.
Then come thou hither, frequenter of cells,
Thy wearied little ass is sweating now,
So spare him, for the ass is Vesta's pet.
With frequent song the crickets now do burst
The trees, and now in varied cool retreat
The lizard lieth hid: if thou art wise,
Reclining swill from summer glasses now,
Or if thou art disposed to lift them, drain
Successive cups of crystal. Hither come,
Thou wearied man, and rest beneath the shade of vine,
Thy heavy head with rosy garland twine,
A tender damsel's lovely body with
Her face enjoying. Let him perish, him
To whom doth ancient prudishness belong!
Why sweetly smelling chaplets dost thou keep
For thankless clay? I Or dost thou wish those bones
To be o'erlaid by wreathèd stone? Then set
The wine and dice, and let him perish who
Doth care about to-morrow. Death your ear
Demands and says, 'I come, so live to-day.'"
http://www.virgil.org/appendix. Last modified 31 May 1998. This page maintained by David Wilson-Okamura. Email your comments to david@virgil.org.