Horace, crowned with laurels bright,
Truly thou hast spoken;
Time outspeeds the swift winds' flight,
Earthly power is broken.
_Chorus_
Give me cups that foaming rise,
Cups with fragrance laden,
Pouting lips and smiling eyes,
Of a blushing maiden.
Blooming grows the budding vine,
And the maid grows blooming;
But the poet quaffs not wine,
Age is surely dooming.
Who would grasp at empty fame?
'Tis a fleeting vision;
But for love and wine we claim,
Sweetness all Elysian.
--Tr. J. A. Pearce, Jr.