Winter is melting, its bitterness
yielding to pleasing, breezy Springtime;
slow winches drag dry vessels onto
water.
And in the stables no longer rejoices a
herd, nor ploughman by fire.
Fields aren’t gleaming white with
morning hoarfrost.
Now Cytherea is leading the choruses:
Venus under bright moons
and Nymphs, accompanied by seemly
Graces,
thump Earth hard with rhythmical feet,
as determined Vulcan goes back
to work in bright hot forges of the
Cyclops.
Now it is fitting to garland your
shimmering head with verdant myrtle
or flowers, which Earth, as it thaws,
produces.
Now in the shadowy groves it is fitting
to sacrifice to Faunus
an ewe, if called for, or a kid, if
favored.
Colorless Death kicks over the tables
of beggars and the towers
of kings alike. O blessed Sestius, how
Life's brief span disallows us
embarking on limitless endeavors!
Now night's upon you pressing, now the
fabled
Manes, and Pluto's diaphanous House,
where as soon as you have entered,
you neither will cast lots to see who
drinks first
nor be able to marvel at slender
Lycidas, who incites now
all youths, and whom soon virgins will
be hot for.
