Classic Poem

I often by the girls am told:
“Anacreon, thou'rt growing old,
Look in thy glass and see
How scanty is thy falling hair,
How wrinkled is thy forehead bare;
Age sets his hand on thee.”

If that old age in foul despite
Makes thin my hair, and winter-white
I care not—but I know
It best behooves a hale old fellow
Like me with Bacchus to be mellow,
Ere to dark death I go.