Explore "Horace I, 18" by Eugene Field on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
O Varus mine / Plant thou the vine / Within this kindly soil of Tibur; / Nor temporal woes / Nor spiritual knows / The man who's a discreet imbiber.
For who doth croak / Of being broke / Or who of warfare, after drinking? / With bowl atween us, / Of smiling Venus / And Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking.
Of symptoms fell / Which brawls impel / Historic data give us warning; / The wretch who fights / When full of nights / Is bound to have a head next morning.
I do not scorn / A friendly horn, / But noisy toots -- I can't abide 'em! / Your howling bat / Is stale and flat / To one who knows, because he's tried 'em!
The secrets of / The life of love / (Companionship with girls and toddy) / I would not drag / With drunken brag / Into the ken of everybody, / But in the shade / Let some coy maid / With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle -- / Then, all day long, / With mirth and song, / Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle!