The explanation avails nothing, which in leading us from one difficulty involves us in another.
Whither, O god of wine, art thou hurrying me, whilst under thy all-powerful influence?
Don't long for the unripe grape.
You have played enough; you have eaten and drunk enough. Now it is time for you to depart.
Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.
Poetry is like painting: one piece takes your fancy if you stand close to it, another if you keep at some distance.