Tag Archives: Bacchus

Amours 1.190

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Tousjours l’erreur qui seduit les Menades,
Ne deçoit pas leurs cerveaux estonnez :
Tousjours au son des cornets entonnez
Les monts Troyens ne foulent de gambades.
 
Tousjours le Dieu des vineuses Thyades
N’affolle pas leurs cœurs espoinçonnez,
Et quelquefois leurs esprits forcenez
Cessent leur rage, et ne sont plus malades.
 
Le Corybante a quelquefois repos,
Et le Curet sous les armes dispos,
Ne sent tousjours le Tan de sa Deesse :
 
Mais la fureur de celle qui me joint,
En patience une heure ne me laisse,
Et de ses yeux tousjours le cœur me poind.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            Not always does the error which led the Maenads astray
                                                                            Deceive their stunned brains;
                                                                            Not always to the sound of braying trumpets
                                                                            Do they throng the Trojan hills with their capers;
 
                                                                            Not always does the god of the wine-soaked Thyades
                                                                            Madden their excited hearts,
                                                                            And sometimes their frenzied minds
                                                                            Cease their madness, and are ill no more.
 
                                                                            The Corybant sometimes rests,
                                                                            And the Curete, under arms,
                                                                            Does not always feel the mark of her goddess;
 
                                                                            But the madness for her which encloses me
                                                                            Leaves me not an hour at peace,
                                                                            And with her eyes my heart always wounds me. 
 
 
Ronsard’s “tousjours” I have translated as ‘always’ – but there is a subsidiary meaning in the French which only gets eliminated towards the end, which is ‘still’ – ‘the Maenads are not still running around the hills of Troy, the Thyades are no longer maddened…’ But with the sestet it becomes clear that he is not contrasting ‘then’ and ‘now’, but ‘not always’ and ‘always’. (Incidentally, while “tousjours … ne” works in French, ‘always doesn’t’ seems to me to mean something slightly different from ‘doesn’t always’ in English!)
 
What of all these names? The Maenads are famous from Euripides’ play of the same name: followers of Dionysus/Bacchus, as were the ‘wine-soaked Thyades’. Maenads (=’maddened ones’) certainly came from or worshipped in the hills, but not specifically Trojan hills. Both were known for the frenzy of their celebrations, ecstatic dancing leading to trance and the loss of inhibition – often leading to violent excess. Corybants were followers of Cybele (another Asian goddess – the Greeks always viewed Asia with suspicion), and Curetes of Rhea – who is often in turn associated with Cybele. They too were known for their ecstatic rites, or as Muret footnotes it ‘when they sacrificed they were seized by a madness which made them run, shout & jump as if out of their minds’.
 
Minor variants in Blanchemain: here’s the whole poem again to avoid a string of picky amendments. Note how in lines 2 and 7 this earlier version had in-line alliteration which Ronsard later chose to make much more subtle by simply switching the words.
 
 
Tousjours l’erreur qui seduit les Ménades
Ne deçoit pas leurs esprits estonnez ;
Toujours au son des cornets entonnez
Les monts troyens ne foulent de gambades.
 
Tousjours le Dieu des vineuses Thyades
N’affolle pas leurs cœurs espoinçonnez,
Et quelquefois leurs cerveaux forcenez
Cessent leur rage, et ne sont plus malades.
 
Le Corybante a quelquefois repos,
Et le Curet, sous les armes dispos,
Sent par saisons le tan de sa déesse ;
 
Mais la fureur de celle qui me joint
En patience une heure ne me laisse,
Et de ses yeux tousjours le cœur me point.
 
 
                                                                            Not always does the error which led the Maenads astray
                                                                            Deceive their stunned minds;
                                                                            Not always to the sound of braying trumpets
                                                                            Do they throng the Trojan hills with their capers;
 
                                                                            Not always does the god of the wine-soaked Thyades
                                                                            Madden their excited hearts,
                                                                            And sometimes their frenzied brains
                                                                            Cease their madness, and are ill no more.
 
                                                                            The Corybant sometimes rests,
                                                                            And the Curete, under arms,
                                                                            From time to time feels the mark of her goddess;
 
                                                                            But the madness for her which encloses me
                                                                            Leaves me not an hour at peace,
                                                                            And with her eyes my heart always wounds me.
 
 
 Blanchemain also offers us a variant of the final tercet:
 
Mais la beauté qui me pousse en erreur
En patience une heure ne me laisse :
« Le sang qui boust est toujours en fureur. »
 
                                                                            But the beauty which drives me to errors
                                                                            Leaves me not an hour at peace:
                                                                            “The blood which boils is always maddened.” 
 
 
 

To Robert Garnier (3)

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Quel son masle et hardy, quelle bouche héroique,
Et quel superbe vers enten-je icy sonner ?
Le lierre est trop bas pour ton front couronner,
Et le bouc est trop peu pour ta Muse tragique.
 
Si Bacchus retournoit au manoir Plutonique,
Il ne voudroit Eschyle au monde redonner,
Il te choisiroit seul, qui seul peux estonner
Le theatre François de ton cothurne antique.
 
Les premiers trahissoient l’infortune des Rois,
Redoublant leur malheur d’une trop basse voix :
La tienne comme foudre en la France s’écarte.
 
Heureux en bons esprits ce siecle plantureux :
Auprés toy, mon Garnier, je me sens bien-heureux,
De quoy mon petit Loir est voisin de ta Sarte.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            What sound, manly and bold, what heroic voice,
                                                                            And what proud verse do I hear ringing out here?
                                                                            The ivy is too poor to crown your brow,
                                                                            And the ram too little for your tragic Muse.
 
                                                                            If Bacchus returned to Pluto’s domain
                                                                            He would not want to give Aeschylus back to the world,
                                                                            He would choose only you, who alone can astonish
                                                                            French theatre with your antique buskin.
 
                                                                            Earlier writers betrayed the misfortune of kings,
                                                                            Redoubling their misfortunes with too poor a voice:
                                                                            Yours, like thunder, rolls forth across France.
 
                                                                            Blessed with great spirits is this bounteous age;
                                                                            Beside you, my Garnier, I feel myself fortunate
                                                                            That my little Loir neighbours your Sarte.

 

 
 
As with the previous poem, Ronsard writes here in his usual Alexandrines. They seem appropriate for a poem proclaiming the voice of thunder with which Garnier speaks, and for comparing him with Aeschylus, perhaps the most noble and high-flown of the three great Greek tragedians and the most natural compaarator (in my view) for the French grand style. (By contrast, Shakespeare is comfortable in Sophoclean or Euripidean style, though he can rise to Aeschylean heights when he wants to:  French tragedy cannot descend to the commonplace of Euripides, and rarely to the middle ground of Sophocles!)  Incidentally this is the first time one of the ancient Greek tragedians has been mentioned in a poem (as opposed to a footnote) on this blog.
 
Having said which, it is pretty obvious that the compliment is over-blown… and Ronsard’s self-deprecation in the final line doesn’t of course stop him making sure we know exactly who has written this encomium!  I imagine Ronsard with his tongue in his cheek; and I have to say I like his style here!
 
In the first stanza the ivy wreath or laurel wreath is an ancient tragic prize; the ram is a sacrifice appropriate to the gods of ancient Greece, but as Ronsard says here too small to say thank you for so great a talent as Garnier…
 
 
 
 

Ode 4: 32

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Verson ces roses en ce vin,
En ce bon vin versons ces roses,
Et boivon l’un à l’autre, afin
Qu’au cœur nos tristesses encloses
Prennent en boivant quelque fin.
 
La belle rose du printemps,
Aubert, admoneste les hommes
Passer joyeusement le temps,
Et pendant que jeunes nous sommes,
Esbattre la fleur de nos ans.
 
Car ainsi qu’elle défleurit
A bas en une matinée,
Ainsi nostre âge se flestrit,
Las ! et en moins d’une journée
Le printemps d’un homme perit.
 
Ne veis-tu pas hier Brinon
Parlant et faisant bonne chere,
Lequel aujourd’hui n’est sinon
Qu’un peu de poudre en une bière,
Qui de luy n’a rien que le nom ?
 
Nul ne desrobe son trespas,
Caron serre tout en sa nasse,
Roys et pauvres tombent là bas ;
Mais ce-pendant le temps se passe,
Rose, et je ne te chante pas.
 
La rose est l’honneur d’un pourpris,
La rose est des fleurs la plus belle,
Et dessus toutes a le pris :
C’est pour cela que je l’appelle
La violette de Cypris.
 
Le rose est le bouquet d’amour,
La rose est le jeu des Charites,
La rose blanchit tout autour
Au matin de perles petites
Qu’elle emprunte du poinct du jour.
 
La rose est le parfum des dieux,
La rose est l’honneur des pucelles,
Qui leur sein beaucoup aiment mieux
Enrichir de roses nouvelles,
Que d’un or tant soit precieux.
 
Est-il rien sans elle de beau ?
La rose embellit toutes choses,
Venus de roses a la peau,
Et l’Aurore a les doigts de roses,
Et le front le Soleil nouveau.
 
Les nymphes de rose ont le sein,
Les coudes, les flancs et les hanches ;
Hebé de roses a la main,
Et les Charites, tant soient blanches,
Ont le front de roses tout plein.
 
Que le mien en soit couronné,
Ce m’est un laurier de victoire :
Sus, appelon le deux-fois-né,
Le bon pere, et le faisons boire,
De cent roses environné.
 
Bacchus, espris de la beauté
Des roses aux fueilles vermeilles,
Sans elles n’a jamais esté,
Quand en chemise sous les treilles
Il boit au plus chaud de l’esté.
Pour these roses into the wine,
Into this fine wine pour these roses,
And drink one to another, that
Those sad things we keep in our hearts
May meet in drinking some kind of end.
 
The fair rose of spring,
Aubert, admonishes men
To spend their time joyously
And, while we’re young,
To frolic away the flower of our years.
 
For just as her petals fall
Down in a morning,
So our age is blighted:
Alas, in less than a day
A man’s springtime perishes.
 
Didn’t you see Brinon yesterday
Chattering and making good cheer,
Who is nothing today but
A little powder in a beer
Which has nothing of him but his name?
 
None can avoid his death,
Charon closes his net on us all,
Kings and paupers fall down below;
But – time is passing,
O Rose, and I am not singing of you!
 
The Rose is the most distinguished of crimsons,
The Rose is of flowers most beautiful,
And above all others takes the prize:
That’s why I call it
The violet of Cypris (=Venus).
 
Rose is the scent of love
The Rose is the plaything of the Graces,
The Rose makes all around it fade,
In the morning, with tiny pearls
She borrows from the dawn.
 
The Rose is the perfume of the gods,
The Rose is the symbol of virgins,
Who love far more to enrich
Their breast with fresh roses
Than with gold however precious.
 
Is there anything beautiful without her?
The Rose enhances all things,
Venus has skin like roses,
And Dawn is rosy-fingered
And the morning Sun is rose-pink.
 
The nymphs have rosy breasts,
Arms, bodies, legs;
Hebe has a rosy hand,
And the Graces, though fair-skinned,
Have all-rosy brows.
 
Would that mine was so crowned,
That would be for me a laurel of victory;
Up then, call the twice-born,
The good father, and let’s make him drink,
Encircled by a hundred roses.
 
Bacchus, enamoured of the beauty
Of roses with their crimson petals,
Has never been without them
When in shirt-sleeves he drinks
Beneath the arbour in the hottest days of summer.
 
 In the 5th stanza, Charon is the boatman who ferries dead souls across the river Styx; I can’t recall anywhere else where the image is of him fishing them up in his net!  In the 9th stanza, ‘rosy-fingered Dawn’ is how Homer always terms her.  In the penultimate stanza the ‘twice-born’ is Dionysus, or Bacchus as in the final stanza. Why twice-born? Well, Bacchus was the child of Jupiter and Semele; those who know the Handel opera will know Semele died as a result of seeing Jupiter in all his glory – before giving birth. Jupiter then took her unborn child (a ‘six-month child’ according to some Greek writers) and sewed it into his thigh to complete its growth until ready to be born. Hence ‘twice-born’, once from Semele’s womb, once from Jupiter’s thigh.
 
Aubert in the 2nd stanza is Guillaume Aubert, friend of du Bellay & posthumous editor of his works.
 
 
 
 
 

Ode (1)

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Je suis homme né pour mourir ;
Je suis bien seur que du trespas
Je ne me sçaurois secourir
Que poudre je n’aille là bas.
 
Je cognois bien les ans que j’ay,
Mais ceux qui me doivent venir,
Bons ou mauvais, je ne les sçay,
Ny quand mon âge doit finir.
 
Pour-ce fuyez-vous-en, esmoy,
Qui rongez mon cœur à tous coups,
Fuyez-vous-en bien loin de moy.
Je n’ay que faire avecque vous.
 
Au moins, avant que trespasser,
Que je paisse à mon aise un jour
Jouer, sauter, rire et dancer
Avecque Bacchus et Amour.
 
 
                                                           I am a man born to die;
                                                           I’m quite sure that from death
                                                           I cannot save myself
                                                           From going below as dust.
 
                                                           I know exactly how old I am,
                                                           But the years which should still come to me,
                                                           Good or bad,I know not,
                                                           Nor when my time will end.
 
                                                           Therefore begone, care,
                                                           You who gnaw my heart at every opportunity,
                                                           Begone far from me,
                                                           I have nothing to do with you.
 
                                                           At least before dying
                                                           Let me spend a day at my ease
                                                           Playing, leaping, laughing, dancing
                                                           With Bacchus and Love.
 
 
 
Blanchemain puts at the front of his edition of the ‘Odes retranchées’ this poem. It starts so strongly, and that opening line cries out to be quoted regularly and often! I wonder why Ronsard removed it from later editions?  Perhaps it is because the last stanza is relatively weak and unfocused – but only relatively.
 
 
 
 

Odes 5, 15

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Nous ne tenons en notre main
Le temps futur du lendemain;
La vie n’a point d’asseurance,
Et, pendant que nous desirons
La faveur des roys, nous mourons
Au milieu de notre esperance.
 
L’homme, après son dernier trespas ,
Plus ne boit ne mange là bas,
Et sa grange, qu’il a laissée
Pleine de blé devant sa fin,
Et sa cave pleine de vin
Ne luy viennent plus en pensée.
 
Hé ! quel gain apporte l’esmoy?
Va, Corydon, appreste-moy
Un lict de roses espanchées.
Il me plaist, pour me défascher,
A la renverse me coucher
Entre les pots et les jonchées.
 
Fay-moy venir Daurat icy ;
Fais-y venir Jodelle aussi,
Et toute la musine troupe;
Depuis le soir jusqu’au matin,
Je veux leur donner un festin
Et cent fois leur pendre la coupe.
 
Verse donc et reverse encor
Dedans ceste grand’ coupe d’or :
Je vay boire à Henry Estienne,
Qui des enfers nous a rendu
Du vieil Anacreon perdu
La douce lyre teïenne.
 
A toy, gentil Anacreon,
Doit son plaisir le biberon,
Et Bacchus te doit ses bouteilles ;
Amour son compagnon te doit
Venus, et Silène, qui boit
L’esté dessous l’ombre des treilles.
 
 
 
                                                                                               We do not hold in our hands
                                                                                               What the future is for tomorrow;
                                                                                               Life gives us no assurances
                                                                                               And while we seek
                                                                                               The favour of kings, we die
                                                                                               In the midst of our hopes.
 
                                                                                               Man after his eventual death
                                                                                               No longer drinks or eats in the Beyond,
                                                                                               And his barn which he left
                                                                                               Full of corn before his end
                                                                                               And his cellar full of wine
                                                                                               No longer come to his mind.
 
                                                                                               Ah, what gain does worry bring?
                                                                                               Go, Corydon, prepare me
                                                                                               A bed strewn with roses.
                                                                                               It pleases me to relax
                                                                                               To lie down on my back
                                                                                               Among the strewings and chaff.
 
                                                                                               Send Daurat to me here
                                                                                               And send Jodelle too
                                                                                               And the whole troop of the Muses’ followers;
                                                                                               From evening through till morning
                                                                                               I’d like to give them a feast
                                                                                               And offer them the cup a hundred times.
 
                                                                                               Pour then, and pour again
                                                                                               Within this great cup of gold
                                                                                               I shall drink to Henry Estienne
                                                                                               Who has returned to us from Hades
                                                                                               The sweet lyre of Teos
                                                                                               Lost by old Anacreon.
 
                                                                                               To you, noble Anacreon,
                                                                                               The drinker owes his pleasure
                                                                                               And Bacchus owes you his bottles;
                                                                                               Venus owes you Love, her companion,
                                                                                               And Silenus who drinks
                                                                                               All summer under the shade of the vine-arbour.
 
As well as the usual classical references, here Ronsard refers to his own contemporaries and friends, other poets in the group which called itself “La Pléïade” (after the cluster of stars, and a famous group of Alexandrian poets: a bold move, particularly as the Alexandrian Pleiad included the enormously influential poets Callimachus and Theocritus, as well as Lycophron and Apollonius of Rhodes!).  Jean Daurat (or Dorat) and Étienne Jodelle were among its minor members;  “the whole troop of the Muses’ followers” is of course the Pléïade.
 
Anacreon was a Greek lyric poet, born in Teos, whose style Ronsard set out to imitate, and whose content he sometimes adapted too: see, for instance, Ode 20 in book 4.
 
Last, Henry Estienne was a publisher and scholar, who edited and issued many Greek texts in print for the first time.
 
 
 

Odes 4, 20 – to Remy Belleau

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Du grand Turc je n’ay souci,
Ny du grand soldan aussi;
L’or ne maistrise ma vie,
Aux roys je ne porte envie;
 
J’ay souci tant seulement
De parfumer cointement
Ma barbe, et qu’une couronne
De fleurs le chef m’environne.
Le soin de ce jour me point,
Du demain je n’en ai point.
Qui, bons Dieux! sçauroit cognoistre
Si un lendemain doit estre.
 
Vulcan, en faveur de moy,
Je te pri’, despeche-toy
De me tourner une tasse,
Qui de profondeur surpasse
Celle du vieillard Nestor;
Je ne veux qu’elle soit d’or,
Sans plus fay-la-moi de chesne,
Ou de lierre, ou de fresne.
 
Et ne m’engrave dedans
Ces grands panaches pendans,
Plastrons, morions, ny armes:
Qu’ai-je soucy des allarmes,
Des assauts ni des combas?
Aussi ne m’y grave pas
Ny le soleil ny la Lune,
Ny le jour ny la nuict brune,
Ny les astres radieux :
Eh ! quel soin ai-je des cieux,
De leurs Ours, de leur Charrette,
D’Orion ou de Boète?
 
Mais pein-moi, je te suppli,
D’une treille le repli
Non encore vendangée ;
Peins une vigne chargée
De grapes et de raisins,
Peins-y des fouleurs de vins.
[Peins-y Vénus et Cassandre,
Laisse de Bacchus espandre
Le lierre tout autour ;
Peins-y la Grâce et l’Amour,]
Le nez et la rouge trongne
D’un Silene et d’un yvrongne.
 
 
 
                                                                                                I don’t care about the Grand Turk
                                                                                                Nor the Great Sudan
                                                                                                Gold is not master in my life
                                                                                                I have no envy of kings.
 
                                                                                                In fact my only care is
                                                                                                To calmly perfume 
                                                                                                My beard, and put a crown
                                                                                                Of flowers around my head.
                                                                                                Today’s care is enough for today
                                                                                                For tomorrow I don’t care at all.
                                                                                                Who, by the gods, could even be sure
                                                                                                That tomorrow will really come?
 
                                                                                                Vulcan, while you favour me
                                                                                                I beg you hurry
                                                                                                To make me a cup
                                                                                                Which in its volume surpasses
                                                                                                That of old Nestor.
                                                                                                I want only that it be of gold
                                                                                                Without any fiddly fittings of oak
                                                                                                Or ivy or ash
 
                                                                                                Don’t engrave me within it any of
                                                                                                Those great swinging plumes,
                                                                                                Breastplates, helmets or weapons:
                                                                                                What do I care about battle’s alarms
                                                                                                Or assaults or fighting?
                                                                                                Also don’t engrave on it for me
                                                                                                Sun or Moon
                                                                                                Day or dark night
                                                                                                Nor radiant stars:
                                                                                                What do I care for the heavens
                                                                                                The Great Bear, Auriga,
                                                                                                Orion or Boötes?
 
                                                                                                Instead, paint me I beg
                                                                                                The meanders of a climbing vine
                                                                                                Not yet harvested;
                                                                                                Paint a vine heavy
                                                                                                With bunches of grapes,
                                                                                                Paint there the treading of the grapes.
                                                                                                [Paint there Venus and Cassandra,
                                                                                                Let Bacchus’s ivy spread
                                                                                                All around;
                                                                                                Paint there Grace and Love,
                                                                                                The nose and the red face
                                                                                                Of a Silenus and a drunkard.
 
 
Ronsard plays with the Homeric set-piece of describing some great object made for a hero by a god; in Homer it’s Achilles’ shield – here, it’s a large wine-cup…  Nestor’s proverbially huge cup is described in the Iliad:
 
     When that cup was full,
     another man could hardly lift it from the table
 
(translation by Ian Johnston, mala.bc.ca).    Ronsard’s poem is the immediate source of the poem ‘Upon his drinking cup’ by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (though his last line unsurprisingly goes for the crude shock word; very unlike Ronsard!).
 
                       Vulcan contrive me such a Cup,
                      As Nestor us’d of old;
                      Shew all thy skill to trim it up,
                      Damask it round with Gold.
 
                      Make it so large, that fill’d with
                      Sack, Up to the swelling brim,
                      Vast Toasts, on the delicious Lake,
                      Like Ships at Sea may swim.
 
                      Engrave no Battail on his Cheek,
                      With War, I’ve nought to do;
                      I’m none of those that took Mastrich,
                      Nor Yarmouth Leager knew.
 
                      Let it no name of Planets tell,
                      Fixt Stars, or Constellations;
                      For I am no Sir Sydrophell,
                      Nor none of his Relations.
 
                      But carve thereon a spreading Vine,
                      Then add Two lovely Boys;
                      Their Limbs in Amorous folds intwine,
                      The Type of future joys.
 
                      Cupid, and Bacchus, my Saints are,
                      May drink, and Love, still reign,
                      With Wine, I wash away my cares,
                      And then to C*** again.                                                           (text sourced from recmusic.org/lieder)
 
 
Both Ronsard and Rochester go back ultimately to Greek originals by Anacreon: Odes 17 & 18 in older editions, more recently relegated to the ‘Anacreonta’ (nos. 4-5) i.e. pseudonymous works in the style of Anacreon. Ode 17 is a far better work than ode 18; though the latter contributes a few ideas, the bulk of Ronsard & Wilmot’s ideas can be traced to ode 17.
 
 
ΕΙΣ  ΠΟΤΗΡΙΟΝ  ΑΡΓΥΡΟΥΝ
 
Τὁν ἄργυρον τορεὐσας,
Ἥφαιστέ, μοι ποιήσον,
Πανοπλίαν μὲν οὐχί ·
Τί γὰρ μάχαισι κᾀμοί ;
Ποτήριον δὲ κοίλον,
Ὅσον δύνῃ,  βάϑυνον.
Ποίει δέ μοι, κατ΄ αὐτὸ,
Μήτ̕ ἄστρα, μήϑʹ ἁμάξας͵
Μὴ στυγνὸν Ὠρίωνα·
Τί Πλειάδεσσι κᾀμοί ;
Τί δ΄ ἄστρασιν Βοὠτεω ;
Ποίησον ἀμπέλους μοι,
Καὶ  βότρυας κατ΄ αὐτὸ,
Καὶ χρυσέους πατοῦντας,
Ὁμοῦ καλῷ Λυαίῳ,
Ἔρωτα καὶ Βάϑυλλον.
 
 
                                                                                               ON A SILVER CUP
 
                                                                                              After carving the silver,
                                                                                               O Hephaestus [Vulcan], make for me
                                                                                               No suit of armour;
                                                                                               For what have I to do with battles?
                                                                                               But rather [make] a hollow bowl
                                                                                               As deep as you can.
                                                                                               And make for me , on it,
                                                                                               Not stars, not the Wagon [=Plough],
                                                                                               Not hateful Orion;
                                                                                               For what have I to do with the Pleaides?
                                                                                               Or with the stars of Boötes?
                                                                                               Make for me vines
                                                                                               And clusters of grapes on it,
                                                                                               And, treading the grapes, golden
                                                                                               Love and Bathyllus [a beautiful boy],
                                                                                               Together with fair Lyaeus [Bacchus].
 
 
Here is Ode 18, which has the same title.
 
Καλλίτεχνά, μοι τόρευσον
Ἔαρος κύπελλον ἡδύ.
Τὰ πρῶτα, τερπνὸν ἡμῖν,
Ῥόδον φέρουςαν ὥρην.
Τὸν ἄργυρον δ΄ ἁπλώσας,
Πότον ποίει μοι τερπνόν.
Τῶν τελετῶν, παραινῶ,
Μή μοι ξένον τορεύσῃς,
Μὴ φευκτὸν ἱστὀρημα.
Μᾶλλον ποίει Διὸς γόνον,
Βάκχον Εὔϊον ἡμῖν,
Μύστην νάματος· ἢ Κύπριν
Ὑμεναίοις κρατοῦσαν.
Χάρασσ’ Ἔρωτ’ ἄνοπλον,
Καὶ χαρίτας γελώσας
Ὑπ’ ἄμπελον εὐπέταλον,
Εὐβότρυον, κομῶσαν,
Σύναπτε κούρους εὐπρεπεῖς,
Ἂν μὴ Φοῖβος ἀϑύρῃ.
 
 
                                                                                               O gifted craftsman, carve for me
                                                                                               The sweet cup of Spring.
                                                                                               First, the season which brings
                                                                                               The rose, delightful to us.
                                                                                               Shaping the silver,
                                                                                               Make me a delightful drinking-cup.
                                                                                               Do not carve for me a strange
                                                                                               And shocking tale
                                                                                               Of sacrifices, please.
                                                                                               Rather, make for us the son of Zeus,
                                                                                               Bacchus Euios,
                                                                                               The priest of running wine; or Venus
                                                                                               Who has charge of weddings.
                                                                                               Engrave Cupid unarmed,
                                                                                               And the laughing Graces
                                                                                               Under a leafy vine,
                                                                                               Heavy with fine grapes;
                                                                                               And add some handsome boys,
                                                                                               If Phoebus [Apollo] is not playing there.