What better thing is there to do,
on Neptune’s festive day? Lyde, brisk now, bring up
Caecuban wine, from my reserve,
and apply some pressure to wisdom’s defences.

You can see the day is dying,
and yet, as if the flying hours were standing still,
you’re slow to fetch from the cellar
that wine-jar put down in Bibulus’ Consulship.

We’ll sing, one after the other,
I, of Neptune, I, the Nereids’ sea-green hair:
you reply on the curving lyre
with Latona, and Cynthia’s speeding arrows:

we’ll end the song with she who holds
Cnidos, the shining Cyclades, she who visits
Paphos: Venus, drawn by her swans:
and we’ll celebrate night too, with a fitting song.