Classic Poem

I'm growing old, the years speed by;
And soon my last song will be sung;
But still, and this none can deny,
I drink more than the young.

When in the dance's mirthful maze
I trip it featly with the best,
For sceptre I a flagon raise,
Upon no staff I rest.

Let him whose soul can take delight
In martial pageantry and war
Seek glory on the field of fight,
To drink is better far.

The goblet bring, my favourite page,
And old Silenus, friends, you'll see
(Despite the incubus of age)
Outdone by merry me.