TO VARUS.
Horace
O Varus, you can plant no tree preferable to the sacred vine, about the
mellow soil of Tibur, and the walls of Catilus. For God hath rendered
every thing cross to the sober; nor do biting cares disperse any
otherwise [than by the use of wine]. Who, after wine, complains of the
hardships of war or of poverty? Who does not rather [celebrate] thee,
Father Bacchus, and thee, comely Venus? Nevertheless, the battle of the
Centaurs with the Lapithae, which was fought in their cups, admonishes
us not to exceed a moderate use of the gifts of Bacchus. And Bacchus
himself admonishes us in his severity to the Thracians; when greedy to
satisfy their lusts, they make little distinction between right and
wrong. O beauteous Bacchus, I will not rouse thee against thy will, nor
will I hurry abroad thy [mysteries, which are] covered with various
leaves. Cease your dire cymbals, together with your Phrygian horn, whose
followers are blind Self-love and Arrogance, holding up too high her
empty head, and the Faith communicative of secrets, and more transparent
than glass.
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