Horace, Odes I. Xx. Translation. Poem by David Mitchell

Cheap the Sabine wine we shall drink together
Out of plain Greek jars which I stored and sealed there
After, Maecenas, you received such heartfelt
Thundrous applause that

Your own sires’ stream’s banks did return your praises,
My dear Eques friend, and the sportive echo
Of the mountain high, yes, the Vatican hill,
Joins the sweet music.

Caecuban you’ll drink and the juice of grapes crushed
By a renowned winepress from the town of Cales;
Nor Falernian vines nor the Formïan hills
Mod’rate my winecups.