1. I speak, and the cup is in my hand, I turn it around,
I address the prey, sons of giants,

2. It reminds me of India and its neighbor,
The voice of doves on the palm tree reminds me of childhood,

3. I wasted my youth and did not gather resolve,
The clinking of goblets, mouths of jugs,

4. As if they and the hands of drinking are calloused,
When they glitter in the hands of young men,

5. Daughters of water together, their eggs are white,
Their beaks are red, yellow are the carriers,

6. Hands of water bearers that scratch the ground calloused,
As if their harm is the return of torn garments,

7. That is the pleasure that did not come deficient,
Or a fallen arrow pierces it from above,

8. Upon you every generous lad, his manners straightforward,
Pure bred, noble, not yet sampled,

9. Never drink intoxicated,
Except with daring, sons of heroes.