Varus, when you plow the red earth of Tibur valley
there where the slopes of Catillis reach your walls
plant nothing before the dark vine stock
whose juice makes everything easy:
for stewed, who cares if death alone ends toil?
pissed, who cares if life at the front sucks?
Those who refuse your refections, O Baccus, might
pass on the gifts of lovely Venus. By all means, drink-
but lightly-never lean too heavily on lispy Liber.
Remember those famous spoilers, centaur and Lapith*
whose drunken duels made even Baccus blush?
may I never so abuse you, gentle Basso
or tell tales whispered in my tipsy ears,
tattle, roll gossip's drum, or chatter like one
who doesn't know that it marks him for a fool,
pleased to distort facts and spew
vile rumors behind another's back.
*famous party-poopers. google S.V.P.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem