"THE TOAST
The swift days fly
from my dear life:
and arrived on the slope
age precipitates.
The beautiful ones, alas! who at feigning
have a tongue so quick,
only repeat to me this
ungrateful truth.
With those mute glances,
with that stingy demeanor,
they tell me very clearly:
we are no longer for you.
And they flee and frolic
among lively youth;
and make eloquent
the eye, the hand, and the foot.
What to do? Should I with tears
wet my eyelashes for this?
Ah no; better advice
is to enjoy still.
If already of tender myrtles
I picked my part in Gnidus
let us leave that to that shore
Love goes with others.
Let the candid backs turn
let the beautiful ones turn to me:
every pleasure with them
does not leave in the end.
To Bacchus, to Friendship
I consecrate the coming days.
Let the myrtles fall and be adorned
with ivy the mixed hair.
What are you doing on this zither,
string, that you sang of love?
Badly you contrast the tenor
of my new pleasure.
Now delight me to sing
among my joyful friends,
wishing them happy
pouring from the glass.
Flees the unstable Venus
with the season of flowers:
but you, Lyaios, restore
when December went out.
Love with fervent age
must fade away;
but friendship follows us
until the last day.
The beautiful ones, who now fly away
shy far from us,
will come to us then slowly
their toast to offer.
And we amiable companions
what to do with them then?
With them a glass again
to drink; and then die."
Created by d'Araprì