Carmina

Furius, your little house is pitted not against the southern breeze nor the western wind nor cruel Boreas nor sunny east, but fifteen thousand two hundred sesterces. O horrible and baleful wind.

Boy cupbearer of old Falernian, pour me more pungent cups as bids the laws of Postumia, mistress of the feast, drunker than a drunken grape. But off with you, as far as you please, crystal waters, bane of wine, depart you to the sober: here the Thyonian juice is pure.