What profits it from tender vine to tear The growing grape? Or who Would pluck with naughty hand an apple fair, Before its season due? Have mercy! gods who keep the murky stream Of that third kingdom dark! On my far future let Elysium beam! Postpone me Charon's bark!-- Till wrinkled age shall make my features pale, And to the listening boys The old man babbles his repeated tale Of vanished days and joys! I trust I fear too much this fever-heat Which two long weeks I have, While with Etrurian nymphs ye sweetly meet, And cleave the yielding wave. Live lucky, friends! live loyal unto me, Though life, though death be mine! Let herds all black dread Pluto's offering be With white milk and red wine! ELEGY THE SIXTH A FARE-WELL TOAST Come radiant Bacchus! With the hallowed leaf Of grape and ivy be thy forehead crowned! For thou canst chase away or cure my grief-- Let love in wine be drowned! Dear bearer of my cup, come, brim it o'er! Pour forth unstinted our Falernian wine! Care's cruel brood is gone; I toil no more, If Phoebus o'er me shine. Dear, jovial friends, let not a lip be dry! Drink as I drink, and every toast obey! And him who will not with my wine-cup vie, May some false lass betray! This god makes all men rich. He tames proud souls, And bids them by a woman's hand be chained; Armenian tigresses his power controls, And lions tawny-maned. That love-god is as strong; but I delight In Bacchus rather. Fill our cups once more! Just and benign is he, if mortal wight Him and his vines adore! But, O! he rages, if his gift ye spurn. 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.