But in vain is the story told to a deaf stomach:
Alas, the fat paunch rejects the warning.
Look, the gluttonous feast tastes good to the foolish palate,
And the gullet drinks in oblivion with greedy mouth.

The Lyre of David,

Parody of Ode 21, Book 3 of Horace.

O you born to be touched by a royal thumb,
Whether you celebrate God with a loud voice,
Or whether you urge the devoted nerves,
O holy Lyre, into prayers:
With whatever chromatic mode you temper
The Psalms, worthy to be moved on a sacred day,
Descend, Christ provoking you,
To pour forth a melody that bends the soul.
He, although he is free from the concerts
Of the heavenly ones, will not disdain you, amiable one.
It is told that the rocks have often
Resounded with your singing of Sion.
You supply sweet nourishment to the anxious
Mind from time to time, you relieve the laments
And the hostile sorrows of those weeping
With a honey-flowing melody.
You replace hope in the deepest hearts,
And fortify the owed ones with strong courage,
After you, neither fearing the treachery of hell,
Nor the wrath of Dis Pluto/Hades.