_Ode Xx._

When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy, The rosy harbinger of joy, Who, with the sunshine of the bowl, Thaws the winter of our soul; When to the inmost core he glides, And bathes it with his ruby tides, A flow of joy, a lively heat, Fires my brain, and wings my feet; 'Tis surely something sweet, I think, Nay, something heavenly sweet, to drink!

Sing, sing of love, let music's breath Softly beguile our rapturous death, While, my young Venus, thou and I To the voluptuous cadence die! Then waking from our languid trance, Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.