Glad are the days of ancient Saturn's feast
What time the lordly dice-box reigns, a king;
O cap-decked Rome, is not my Muse released
From trammels now? You laugh—so I may sing;
Hence, hence ye pallid cares, get far away
And let me speak whatever comes to mind,
No need have I of surly thought to-day—
But first a lavish draught of Nero's kind,
Half wine, half water; that's the rule, my slave;
So fill the generous cup; then mingle more
Than erst Pythagoras to Nero gave;
Sober I'm naught, but if good wine you pour
A tenfold spirit shall my song inspire:
And add the kisses that Catullus knew,
Then should I sing with all Verona's fire
And even match the ‘sparrow song’ for you.