Poem 27: To His Wine-BearerBy Gaius Valerius Catullus
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Come boy, and serve me that rich vintage  
  The Old Campanian wine.
Pour me a strong one, pure of spirit.  
  Better this bowl of mine.
Postumia our party-mistress  
  Full of more alcohol
Than these drunk grapes, demands as much.  
  It is her judgment call.
But you, weak water, great diluter,  
  Polluter of the vine,
Come nowhere near my grape-kissed lips  
  Nor touch this bowl of mine.
Be sobering with sober men,  
  And get out of my sight
For I will drink, and only drink   
  Red Bacchus straight tonight.
The Original:
Minister vetulī puer Falernī,
inger mÄ« calicÄ“s amÄriÅrÄ“s,
ut lēx Postumiae iubet magistrae
Ä“briÅsÅ acÄ«nÅ Ä“briÅsiÅris.
at vÅs quÅ lubet hinc abÄ«te, lymphae,
vÄ«nÄ« perniciÄ“s, et ad sevÄ“rÅs
migrÄte. HÄ«c merus est ThyÅniÄnus.
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