I’ve a jar of Alban wine over nine years
old: and there’s parsley for weaving your garlands,
in the garden, Phyllis, and see, there’s a huge
amount of ivy,
with which you shine whenever it ties your hair:
the house gleams with silver: the altar is wreathed
with pure vervain, and waits to be stained with blood,
a sacrificed lamb:
All hands are scurrying: here and there, a crowd
of boys and girls are running, and see the flames
are flickering, sending the sooty smoke rolling
high up in the air.
And so that you know to what happiness you’re
invited, it’s the Ides that are the reason,
they’re the days that divide the month of April,
of sea-born Venus,
it’s truly a solemn day for me, and more
sacred to me almost than my own birthday,
because from that morning Maecenas reckons
the flow of his years.
A rich, an impudent, young girl has captured
Telephus, one you desire, and who’s above
your station, and holds him prisoner, fettered
with beautiful chains.
Scorched Phaethon’s a warning to hope’s ambition,
and winged Pegasus offered a harsh example
in refusing his back to Bellerephon,
his earthly rider:
always pursue what’s appropriate for you,
consider it wrong to hope for what isn’t
allowed, for someone who isn’t your equal.
Come now, my last love,
(since I’ll burn for no other woman after
you) learn verses you’ll repeat in your lovely
voice: the darkest of cares will be lessened
by means of your song.
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