Unicuique proprium dat natura donum, Ego versus faciens, vinum bibo bonum, Et quod habent melius dolia cauponum, Tale vinum generat copiam sermonum. Tales versus facio, quale vinum bibo, Nihil possum scribere, nisi sumpto cibo, Nihil valet penitus quod jejunus scribo, Nasonem post calices carmine præibo. Mihi nunquam spiritus prophetiæ datur, Nisi tunc cum fuerit venter bene satur, Cum in arce cerebri Bacchus dominatur, In me Phœbus irruit, ac miranda fatur. Of which the following, by Robert Harrison, is an ‘Imitation.’ I’m fixed:--I’ll in some tavern lie, When I return to dust; And have the bottle at my month, To moisten my dry crust: That the choice spirits of the skies (Who know my soul is mellow) May say, Ye gods, propitious smile! Here comes an honest fellow. My lamp of life ‘I’ll’ kindle up With spirits stout as Hector; Upon the flames of which I’ll rise And quaff celestial nectar. My lord invites me, and I starve On water mix’d with wine; But at _The Grapes_, I get it neat, And never fail to shine. To every man his proper gift Dame Nature gives complete: My humour is--before I write, I always love to eat; For, when I’m scanty of good cheer, I’m but a boy at best: So hunger, thirst, and Tyburn-tree I equally detest. Give me good wine, my verses are As good as man can make ‘em; But when I’ve none, or drink it small, You’ll say, The devil take ‘em! For how can anything that’s good Come from an empty vessel? But I’ll out-sing even Ovid’s self Let me but wet my whistle. With belly full, and heart at ease, And all the man at home, I grow prophetic, and can talk Of wondrous things to come. When, on my brain’s high citadel, Strong _Bacchus_ sits in state, Then _Phœbus_ joins the jolly god, And all I say is great.[58] Others have tried their hand at a translation. S. R. Clarke (_Vestigia Anglicana_) thus renders the first stanza:-- Well, let me jovial in a tavern die, And bring to my expiring lips the bowl, That choirs of angels, when they come, may cry, Heaven be propitious to the toper’s soul. The late Mr. Green gives the following version:-- Die I must, but let me die drinking in an inn! Hold the wine-cup to my lips sparkling from the bin! So, when angels flutter down to take me from my sin, ‘Ah, God have mercy on this sot,’ the cherubs will begin![59] It only remains to add that this enigmatical character well earned the title of ‘the Anacreon of his age.’