"Welcome joy, and feast,
Midnight shout and revelry,
Tipsy dance and jollity.
Braid your locks with rosy twine,
Dropping odours, dropping wine,
Rigour now is gone to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head:
Strict age and sour severity,
With their grave saws, in slumber lie.
We, that are of purer fire,
Imitate the starry quire,
Who, in their nightly watchful spheres,
Lead in swift round the months and years.
* * * * * *
What hath night to do with sleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove;
Venus now wakes, and wakens love.
{161}
Come, let us our rites begin;
'Tis only day-light that makes sin,
Which these dim shades will ne'er report.
Come, knot hands, and beat the ground
In a light fantastic round."