To N. N.

From Aesculapius escaping,
I'm lean and shaven, but alive;
His cruel paw no more torments me,
And there is hope that I may thrive.
Now health, the light friend of Priapus,
And sleep, are entering my door,
And in my plain and crowded corner
Repose becomes my guest once more.
Then humor this poor convalescent,
You too — he longs to see again
Your face, you lawless carefree creature,
You, Pindus' lazy citizen,
True son of Freedom and of Bacchus,
Who worships Venus piously,
A masterhand at every pleasure.
From Petersburg society,
Its chilly charms, its idle bustle,
Its clacking tongues that nothing stills,
Its various and endless boredom,
I'm summoned by the fields and hills,
The shady maples in the garden,
The bank of the deserted burn,
The liberties the country offers.
Give me youf, hand. I will return
At the beginning of October:
We'll drink together once again,
And o'er our cups with friendly candor
Discuss a dozen gentlemen —
We'll talk of fools and wicked gentry,
And those with flunkeys' souls from birth,
And sometimes of the Czar of Heaven,
And sometimes of the one on earth.