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ERE is a cask of Alban, more Than nine years old: here grows for you Green parsley, Phyllis, and good store Of ivy too (Wreathed ivy suits your hair, you know): The plate shines bright: the altar, strew'd With vervain, hungers for the flow Of lambkin's blood. There's stir among the serving folk; They bustle, bustle, boy and girl; The flickering flames send up the smoke In many a curl. Rut why, you ask, this special cheer? We celebrate the feast of Ides, Which April's month, to Venus dear, In twain divides. O, 'tis a day for reverence, E'en my own birthday scarce so dear. For my Mæcenas counts from thence Each added year. 'Tis Telephus that you'd bewitch: But he is of a high degree; Bound to a lady fair and rich, He is not free.