Let kings present as sign of grace
A golden necklace to the bard:
Let jesters, when the populace
Clap hands and shout, have their reward.

Prize for my verse, which eagerly
Betwixt the Past and Future flies,
One brimming cup to Friendship I
Demand, one smile from Beauty's eyes.

Like memory of an April morn
How pure is Beauty's smile; how sweet
To one whom wingèd age doth warn
That his ninth lustre 's near complete.

And 'mid the cups by Friendship crowned
Serene, O Plato, as beneath
Ilissus' plane-trees he was found
By thee, doth flit the form of Death.