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Blessed Maecenas, when will I, happy, by the grace of Jove, drink vintage Caecuban at the victory banquet with you, in your great house with victorious Caesar, the lyre playing a Dorian march with barbarian flutes mixed in? Just as we recently celebrated, when the retreating Neptunian leader, threatening chains on the city which he dragged from his friends-- perfidious slaves-- flew through the straits, his ships in flames.

A Roman—God! (future generations will deny it)—made over to a woman, carrying palisade stakes and soldiers arms, allowing himself to serve withered eunuchs while the sun looks down upon the legionary standards posted around a disgraceful canopy bed. But then, twice 1,000 Galatians turned their roaring horses, shouting the name of Caesar, while the enemy’s ships, mustered to the left, turned tail into the port.

Hail Triumph! Do you delay golden chariots and sacred bulls?

Hail Triumph! Not after the Jurgurthine War did you return an equal general, nor did Africanus, whose manly virtue built a tomb upon Carthage. Victory on land and sea has turned the enemy’s cloak from purple to the color of mourning. Either he makes for Crete, renowned for its 100 cities, on winds not his own, or to Libya, troubled by the Notus, or is carried upon an uncertain sea.

Boy! Bring out larger cups and some Chian or Lesbian wines; or rather give out fine Caecuban to ease my queasiness. It’s a pleasure to loosen fear and dread over Caesar’s affairs with sweet Bacchus.

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