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The Heavens, that they may destroy us both,
On our pure souls to war are nothing loth;
Sit down, my Idol, on the grass, for soon
My dust and thine shall aid its vernal growth.
What profits in our birth, and what our death?
Where is the Woof our life's frail Warp beneath?
The World's great fire burns many such to dust;
Where is the smoke of them within its breath?
Flee from all study, and thy fingers twine
In those soft curls of her thou callest thine;
Ere Fate shall spill thy blood, hasten to pour
Into the cup the red blood of the vine.
This beard of mine hath brush'd the Tavern door.
The good and ill of Earth or Heav'n no more
I seek; though both the worlds should fall apart,
Here, like a drunkard, will I lie and snore.
To everything save wine deny thy lips;
And wine is best when Beauty pours and sips;
Drinking, and Beggary, and Sin are best;
From Pole to Pole all pleasure these eclipse.
This heavenly vault is like a fallen bowl,
'Neath which the captive wise in sorrow roll;
Revenge thyself! as do the cup and jar,
When wine is spilt between them cheek by jowl.
The Rose's skirt is tatter'd by the breeze,
But Nightingales still woo her in the trees;
Sit in her fragrant bower, for oft the wind
Hath strewn and turn'd to dust such flowers as these.
How long shall I, or poor or wealthy, grieve?
How long, or sad or merry, shall i live?
Fill up the bowl! this very breath I draw,
The winds may ne'er from me again receive.
Bear not the sorrow of this world of strife!
Wake not remembrance, for with Death 'tis rife!
Love her of fairly birth and glowing breast!
Drown not in water all the joys of Life!
Though sixty years thou countest, scorn to die;
Where'er thou walkest, to the wine-flask hie;
Until thy hollow skull be made a bowl,
Hold fast the jar, nor let the cup go by.
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