Classic Poem

With cups, the instruments of mirth, to fight
Let Thracians use. Their savage ways I bar.
Let quarrelling and bloodshed from the sight
Of Bacchus, gentle god, be banished far.

Immense the gulf that severs lamps and wine
From Median scimitar. I bid you stop
The outrageous uproar, comrades, and recline,
Each head sunk back upon its elbow prop.

Is it your will that I too drain my draught
Of strong Falernian? First I'll know the truth
From Greek Megilla's brother, whence the shaft
That mortal wound has dealt him, lucky youth.

My terms refused? Then not a drop I drink.
Whoe'er the charmer that thy heart doth sway,
No cause for shame the fire she kindles think;
To stoop to low amours was ne'er thy way.

Come, be it what it will, confide thy case
To ears that safely will the secret guard.
Ah! caught, poor boy, in that fell whirlpool race,
A lover worthy of a fate less hard!

What witch, what sorcerer with drug from soil
Of Thessaly culled, what god can rescue thee?
Scarce from thy triple-formed Chimaera's coil
Will Pegasus avail to set thee free.