No. 48.
Laurel-crowned Horatius,
True, how true thy saying!
Swift as wind flies over us
Time, devouring, slaying.
Where are, oh! those goblets full
Of wine honey-laden,
Strifes and loves and bountiful
Lips of ruddy maiden?
Grows the young grape tenderly,
And the maid is growing;
But the thirsty poet, see,
Years on him are snowing!
What's the use on hoary curls
Of the bays undying.
If we may not kiss the girls,
Drink while time's a-flying?
The second consists of a truly brilliant development of the theme
which our Herrick condensed into one splendid phrase--"There's no lust
like to poetry!"