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Το ροδον το των ερωτων.
The rose, the flower of love,
Mingle with our quaffing; The rose, the lovely-leav'd, Round our brows be weav'd,
O the rose, the first of flowers, Darling of the early bowers,
Ev'n the gods for thee have places; Thee too Cytherea's boy Weaves about his locks for joy,
Dancing with the Graces.
Crown me then ; I'll play the lyre,
Bacchus, underneath thy shade: Heap me, heap me higher and higher, And I'll lead a dance of fire
With a dark deep-bosom'd maid.
Στεφανους μεν κροταφοισι.
Often fit we round our brows, One and all, the rosy boughs, And with genial laughs carouse.
To the twinkling of the lute Trips a girl with delicate foot, Bearing a green ivy stick Rustling with it's tresses thick; While a boy of earnest air, With a gentle head of hair,