Lydé

Come! It is a holiday. Let us drink generously

Of Caecuban wine from the cellar.

Proud Lydé, permit a familiar pleasure

To soften your good sense a little.

Time flies, the horizon reddens under the sun;

Hurry. The amphora, filled

Under the consulship of Bibulus, lies buried:

Disturb its ancient sleep.

I will sing of bitter floods, of the green tresses

Of the Nereids; you, Lydé,

On the lyre that you embrace in your arms,

You will sing of Diana the Huntress.

Then we will call to Venus and her chariot

Harnessed to swans and directed by golden reins,

The Cyclades, Paphos, and your shores, O Gnidus!

Then we will sing a hymn to the starlit sky.