Echoes from the Sabine Farm. Гораций

      Aha, 't is fine,—this mellow wine

      With which our host would dope us!

      Now let us hear what pretty dear

      Entangles him of Opus.

      I see you blush,—nay, comrades, hush!

      Come, friend, though they despise you,

      Tell me the name of that fair dame,—

      Perchance I may advise you.

      O wretched youth! and is it truth

      You love that fickle lady?

      I, doting dunce, courted her once;

      Since when, she's reckoned shady!