Classic Poem

Mon enterrement

This morning — how, I scarce can say —
I saw about my room at play
A swarm of Cupids — hushed I lay
" He's dead! " I heard them cry so merry all,
" 'Twere worth our while to give him burial! "
Ah! how between my sheets I cursed
These gods, my very leaders erst:
If credence to the rogues I give,
Pity me, friends — I've ceased to live.

My wine they broach — each has a drink —
They tip my servant girl the wink —
One takes to drawling through his nose
The office for my soul's repose —
As driver of the hearse one goes —
Whilst one, the gravest, for my mutes
Orders a band of tiny flutes
My carriage waits — it will not stay —
Pity me, friends — I'm borne away

With laugh and chat, in double row,
Playing their tricks, the Cupids go.
The pall, where tears (of silver) shine,
Bears cup, and lute, and flowers, in sign
Of joyous orders that were mine:
Whilst, hat in hand, the passer-by
Says, " Sad, or merry, all must die! "
The Cupids haste — each hurries each —
Pity me, friends — my grave I reach.

The troop arrived, in place of prayer
They chant my merriest couplets there;
And then a laurel crown decree,
Sculptured in marble — ay, for me!
Yes, well my relics proud might be!
All to my glory is converted
In place so soon to be deserted:
A god's I half believe my doom —
Pity me, friends — I'm in my tomb.

But no — good fortune to my aid
Just then brought Liz, the fickle jade;
She snatched me from the threatened shade:
And quick, but how I scarcely know,
I felt new life within me glow
O ye, in whom your age excites
Abuse of life and its delights,
Who ever of this world complain,
Pity me, friends — I live again