Classic Poem

To the lute's voluptuous sound
Let the rosy bowl go round.
He who drinks not, much doth miss;
Wine the true nepenthe is.
In a little while we must
Die, and moulder into dust.
Let us quaff then while we may
And in paths of pleasure stray.
There is music in the whoop
Of satyrs, and the merry cloop
Of flying corks; and glasses' clink
Makes one of the fairies think.
Wine will pallid faces brighten,
Wine will Paphian blisses heighten,
Wine a glamour bright will throw
Over life, and care and woe
Lull in gracious wise to sleep.
Comrades, let our draughts be deep,
Ere the phantom death draws nigh,
And within cold graves we lie.