Anacreontics II: The Epicure

Underneath this myrtle shade,

On flowery beds supinely laid,

With odorous oils my head o'erflowing,

And around it roses growing,

What should I do but drink away

The heat and troubles of the day?

In this more than kingly state

Love himself on me shall wait.

Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up!

And mingled cast into the cup

Wit and mirth and noble fires,

Vigorous health and gay desires.

The wheel of life no less will stay

In a smooth than rugged way:

Since it equally doth flee,

Let the motion pleasant be.

Why do we precious ointments shower?—

Nobler wines why do we pour?—

Beauteous flowers why do we spread

Upon the monuments of the dead?

Nothing they but dust can show,

Or bones that hasten to be so.

Crown me with roses while I live,

Now your wines and ointments give: