Classic Poem

Prate not of the savants' rules,
Or the squabbles of the schools,

Or the sophists' subtle wit,
For I have no part in it.

Teach me not to pose and think,
Rather teach me how to drink,

And, with many a sprightly sally,
Teach me how in love to dally.

Mine are tresses winter-white,
I've scant time to snare delight,

But the few years left to me
I'll enjoy right merrily.

Water mix, O boy, with wine;
Let the vine's red glories shine;

Reason let and memory sleep
While my soul in wine I steep.

Soon in joyless sunless gloom
Must I lie within the tomb.

Fill the gleaming goblet higher,
After death is no desire.