Classic Poem

Beneath this fragrant myrtle shade,
While I my weary limbs recline,
O love, be thou my Ganymede,
And hither bring the gen'rous wine!

How swift the wheel of time revolves!
How soon life's little race is o'er!
And, oh! when death this frame dissolves,
Mirth, joy, and frolick is no more!

Why then, ah! fool, profusely vain,
With incense shall thy pavements shine?
Why dost thou pour, O wretch profane,
On senseless earth, the nectar'd wine?

To me thy breathing odours bring,
On me the mantling bowls bestow:
Go, Chloe, rob the roseate spring
For wreaths to grace my honour'd brow.

Yes, ere the airy dance I join
Of flitting shadows, light and vain,
I'll wisely drown, in floods of wine,
Each busy care, and idle pain.