This is the way to speak around the fire

In winter, on a soft couch, belly full,

Drinking sweet wine, and crunching hazelnuts:

‘Now tell us, sir, your name and home and age.

How old were you the year the Mede appeared?* (fr. 22)

Now is the floor swept, hands and cups washed clean;

Fresh-woven garlands crown our heads, and now

The fragrant unguent-bottle makes its rounds.

The bowl stands waiting brimful of good cheer,

And here's another wine that will not fail—

Soft-tasting, flower-scented in its jars.

Incense distils the scent of holiness,

And there is water, cold and sweet and clean.

See the brown loaves, and on a worthy table

A load of cheeses and rich honey lies.

As centre-piece an altar, thickly strewn

With flowers. Song and revel fill the hall.

First it is meet for righteous men to hymn,

With pious stories and pure words, the god.

Then, due libations paid, with prayers for strength

To act aright (our plainest duty this),

It is no sin to drink—so much, that all

Not weak from age may come safe home alone.

Praise him who after drinking can relate

Fine deeds, as memory serves and lust for good.

Give us no fights with Titans, no nor Giants

Nor Centaurs, which our fathers falsely told,

Nor civil brawls, in which no profit is.

But to be mindful of the gods is good. (fr. 1)