You take your pleasure by Etrurian streams,
Save when the dog-star burns:
Or bathe you where mysterious Baiae steams,
When purple Spring returns.

But dread Persephone assigns to me
The hour of gloom and fears.
O Queen of death! be innocence my plea!
Pity my youthful tears!

I never have profaned that sacred shrine
Where none but women go,
Nor in my cup cast hemlock, or poured wine
Death-drugged for friend or foe.

I have not burned a temple: nor to crime
My fevered passions given:
Nor with wild blasphemy at worship-time
Insulted frowning Heaven.

Not yet is my dark hair defaced with gray,
Nor stoop nor staff have I;
For I was born upon that fatal day
That saw two consuls die.

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!