We set rose crowns upon our heads, we laugh and drink deliciously.
A fragile girl, with ivy-wreathed hair and a thyrsus in her hand, dances to the lyre. A soft-haired lad plays on the paktis, pouring out his clear voice — sweetness of breathing mouths!
And gold-fleshed Love and Lyaeus and the exquisite Cytherean mingle in the banquet of the old men.