If the gods have been bountiful to you to-day,
Oh say not to her for whom we sing,
Say not, we implore you, nay,
To the bird of the cloudy wing.
A grain of salt will please her well,
And whoso this day that bestows,
May next day give (for who can tell?)
A comb from which the honey flows.
But come, come, what need we say more?
Open the door, boy, open the door,