Tread we thine infinite treasure, Iacchus, the vintage sweet!
Weave we the Bacchic measure with paces of wildering feet.
Down flows the vast clear stream, and the ivy-wood bowls, as they float
O'er the surging nectar, seem each like a fairy boat,
Close we stand as we drink and pledge in the glowing wine-
No warm Naiad, I think, need kiss in your cup or mine!

See, o'er the wine-press bending, the maiden Roseflower beams-
Splendour of loveliness sending that dazzles the flood with its gleams.
Captive the hearts of us all! straightway no man that is here
But is bound to Bacchus in thrall-to Paphia in bondage dear.
Cruel-for while at our feet he revels in bountiful rain,
Longing most fleet-most sweet-is all she gives for our pain.