τίς σε πάγος δυσέρημος, ἀνήλιος, ἐξέθρεψεν
Βορραίου Σκυθίης, ἄμπελον ἀγριάδα;
ἢ Κελτῶν νιφοβλῆτες ἀεὶ κρυμώδεες Ἄλπεις,
τῆς τε σιδηροτόκου βῶλος Ἰβηριάδος;

ἣ τοὺς ὀμφακόραγας ἐγείναο, τοὺς ἀπεπάντους
βότρυας, οἳ στυφελὴν ἐξέχεον σταγόνα.

δίζημαι, Λυκόεργε, τεὰς χέρας, ὡς ἀπὸ ῥίζης
κλήματος ὠμοτόκου βλαστὸν ὅλον θερίσῃς.

— Paton edition

What desert, sunless hill of Northern Scythia
nourished thee, wild vine ? Or was it the eternal
ice of the snowy Celtic Alps or the iron-bearing soil
of Spain — thee, who didst bear the sour grapes, the
unripened clusters — that yielded this harsh juice ?
I seek for thy hands, Lycurgus, to tear up by the
roots the whole plant of that vine, the mother of
crude fruit.

— Paton edition