_Ode Xxviii._

'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet I can quaff the brimming wine, As deep as any stripling fair, Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear; And if, amidst the wanton crew, I'm call'd to wind the dance's clue, Thou shall behold this vigorous hand, Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,

But brandishing a rosy flask, The only Thyrsus e'er I'll ask! Let those who pant for Glory's charms, Embrace her in the held of arms; While my inglorious placid soul Breathes not a wish beyond the bowl.

Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, And bathe me in its honied wave! For though my fading years decay, And though my bloom has passed away, Like old Silenus, sire divine, With blushes borrowed from my wine, I'll wanton 'mid the dancing train, And live my follies all again!