What, fight with cups that should give joy? 'Tis barbarous; leave such savage ways To Thracians. Bacchus, shamefaced boy, Is blushing at your bloody frays. The Median sabre! lights and wine! Was stranger contrast ever seen? Cease, cease this brawling, comrades mine, And still upon your elbows lean. Well, shall I take a toper's part Of fierce Falernian? let our guest, Megilla's brother, say what dart Gave the death-wound that makes him blest. He hesitates? no other hire Shall tempt my sober brains. Whate'er The goddess tames you, no base fire She kindles; 'tis some gentle fair Allures you still. Come, tell me truth, And trust my honour.—That the name? That wild Charybdis yours? Poor youth! O, you deserved a better flame! What wizard, what Thessalian spell, What god can save you, hamper'd thus? To cope with this Chimaera fell Would task another Pegasus.
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