Drink, if ye dare not a god's anger brave!
How fierce his stroke, let temperate fellows learn
Of Pentheus' gory grave.
Away such fear! Rather may some fierce stroke
On that false beauty fall!--O frightful prayer!
O, I am mad! O may my curse be broke,
And melt in misty air!
For, O Neaera, though I am forgot,
I ask all gods to bless thee, every one.
Back to my cups I go. This wine has brought
After long storms, the sun.
Alas! How hard to masque dull grief in joy!
A sad heart's jest--what bitter mockery!
With vain deceit my laughing lips employ
Loud mirth that is a lie.
But why complain and moan? O wretched me!
When will my lagging sorrows haste and go?
Delightful Bacchus at his mystery
Forbids these words of woe.
Once, by the wave, lone Ariadne pale,
Abandoned of false Theseus, weeping stood:--
Our wise Catullus tells the doleful tale
Of love's ingratitude.
Take warning friends! How fortunate is he,
Who learns of others' loss his own to shun!
Trust not caressing arms and sighs, nor be
By flatteries undone!
Though by her own sweet eyes her oath she swear,
By solemn Juno, or by Venus gay,
At oaths of love Jove laughs, and bids the air
Waft the light things away.
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