Ah Ben!
Say how or when
Shall we, thy guests,
Meet at those lyric feasts,
Made at the Sun,
The Dog, the Triple Tun;
Where we such clusters had,
As made us nobly wild, not mad?
And yet each verse of thine
Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
My Ben!
Or come again,
Or send to us
Thy wit's great overplus;
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it,
Lest we that talent spend;
And having once brought to an end
That precious stock,--the store
Of such a wit the world should have no more.
54. TO LIVE MERRILY,
AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES
Now is the time for mirth;
Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
For with [the] flowery earth
The golden pomp is come.
The golden pomp is come;
For now each tree does wear,
Made of her pap and gum,
Rich beads of amber here.
Now reigns the Rose, and now
Th' Arabian dew besmears
My uncontrolled brow,
And my retorted hairs.
Homer, this health to thee!
In sack of such a kind,
That it would make thee see,
Though thou wert ne'er so blind
Next, Virgil I'll call forth,
To pledge this second health
In wine, whose each cup's worth
An Indian commonwealth.
A goblet next I'll drink
To Ovid; and suppose
Made he the pledge, he'd think
The world had all one nose.
Then this immensive cup
Of aromatic wine,
Catullus! I quaff up
To that terse muse of thine.
Wild I am now with heat:
O Bacchus! cool thy rays;
Or frantic I shall eat
Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays!
Round, round, the roof does run;
And being ravish'd thus,
Come, I will drink a tun
To my Propertius.
Now, to Tibullus next,
This flood I drink to thee;
--But stay, I see a text,
That this presents to me.
Behold! Tibullus lies
Here burnt, whose small return
Of ashes scarce suffice
To fill a little urn.
Trust to good verses then;
They only will aspire,
When pyramids, as men,
Are lost i' th' funeral fire.
And when all bodies meet
In Lethe to be drown'd;
Then only numbers sweet
With endless life are crown'd.
55. THE APPARITION OF HIS, MISTRESS,
CALLING HIM TO ELYSIUM