ANACREONTICS: THE EPICURE

by: Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)

      NDERNEATH this myrtle shade,
      On flowery beds supinely laid,
      With odorous oils my head o'erflowing,
      And around it roses growing,
      What should I do but drink away
      The heat and troubles of the day?
      In this more than kingly state
      Love himself on me shall wait.
      Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up!
      And mingled cast into the cup
      Wit and mirth and noble fires,
      Vigorous health and gay desires.
      The wheel of life no less will stay
      In a smooth than rugged way:
      Since it equally doth flee,
      Let the motion pleasant be.
      Why do we precious ointments shower?--
      Nobler wines why do we pour?--
      Beauteous flowers why do we spread
      Upon the monuments of the dead?
      Nothing they but dust can show,
      Or bones that hasten to be so.
      Crown me with roses while I live,
      Now your wines and ointments give:
      After death I nothing crave,
      Let me alive my pleasures have:
      All are Stoics in the grave.

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