To Live Merrily, And To Trust To Good Verses

Now is the time for mirth,

   Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;

For with the flow'ry earth

   The golden pomp is come.

The golden pomp is come;

   For now each tree does wear,

Made of her pap and gum,

   Rich beads of amber here.

Now reigns the rose, and now

   Th' Arabian dew besmears

My uncontrolled brow

   And my retorted hairs.

Homer, this health to thee,

   In sack of such a kind

That it would make thee see

   Though thou wert ne'er so blind.

Next, Virgil I'll call forth

   To pledge this second health

In wine, whose each cup's worth

   An Indian commonwealth.

A goblet next I'll drink

   To Ovid, and suppose,

Made he the pledge, he'd think

   The world had all one nose.

Then this immensive cup

   Of aromatic wine,

Catullus, I quaff up

   To that terse muse of thine.

Wild I am now with heat;

   O Bacchus! cool thy rays!

Or frantic, I shall eat

   Thy thyrse, and bite the bays.

Round, round the roof does run;

   And being ravish'd thus,

Come, I will drink a tun

   To my Propertius.

Now, to Tibullus, next,

   This flood I drink to thee;

But stay, I see a text

   That this presents to me.

Behold, Tibullus lies

   Here burnt, whose small return

Of ashes scarce suffice

   To fill a little urn.

Trust to good verses then;

   They only will aspire,

When pyramids, as men,

   Are lost i' th' funeral fire.

And when all bodies meet,

   In Lethe to be drown'd,

Then only numbers sweet

   With endless life are crown'd.