From the Medea of Euripides

The rites derived from ancient days

With thoughtless reverence we praise,

The rites that taught us to combine

The joys of music and of wine,

And bid the feast, and song and bowl

O'erfill the saturated soul:

But ne'er the flute or lyre applied

To cheer despair or soften pride;

Nor call them to the gloomy cells

Where Wants repines and Vengeance swells;

Where Hate sits musing to betray,

And murder meditates his prey!

To dens of guilt and shades of care,

Ye sons of melody, repair;

Nor deign the festive dome to cloy

With superfluity of joy,

Ah! little needs the minstrel's power

To speed the light convivial hour,

The board with varied plenty crown'd

May spare the luxuries of sound.