Never, methinks, are the gods
known to visit,
Hardly comes Bacchus, the merry,
But arrives Cupid then, boyish and
Phoebus, the lordly one, makes
They come, they approach, the
They fill and fulfill the
Tell me, how should a mere worldling regale you,
Grant your renowned immortality to me,
Gods! What can mortals then give to you, truly?
Lift me unto your Olympus on high!
This joy, it dwells only in Jupiter's palace;
O fill it with nectar, O pass me the chalice!
Pass him the chalice! Grant this the poet,
Moisten his eyes with a heavenly dew,
Keep the detestable Styx from his view,
Let him thus seem to be one of our own.
It rushes, it sparkles, the fount of delight,
The bosom grows peaceful, the eye becomes bright.