rivers up,
     So filled that they o’erflow the cup. 
     The busy Sun (and one would guess
     By ’s drunken fiery face no less)
     Drinks up the sea, and, when he’s done,
     The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun: 
     They drink and dance by their own light;
     They drink and revel all the night. 
     Nothing in nature’s sober found,
     But an eternal health goes round. 
     Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
     Fill all the glasses there; for why
     Should every creature drink but I? 
     Why, man of morals, tell me why?

—­Cowley’s Translation.

          Age

     Oft am I by the women told,
     Poor Anacreon, thou grow’st old! 
     Look how thy hairs are falling all;
     Poor Anacreon, how they fall! 
     Whether I grow old or no,
     By th’ effects I do not know;
     This I know, without being told,
     ’Tis time to live, if I grow old;
     ’Tis time short pleasures now to take,
     Of little life the best to make,
     And manage wisely the last stake.

Cowley’s Translation.

          Theepicure

I

     Fill the bowl with rosy wine! 
     Around our temples roses twine! 
     And let us cheerfully awhile,
     Like the wine and roses, smile. 
     Crowned with roses, we contemn
     Gyges’ wealthy diadem. 
     To-day is ours, what do we fear? 
     To-day is ours; we have it here: 
     Let’s treat it kindly, that it may
     Wish, at least, with us to stay. 
     Let’s banish business, banish sorrow;
     To the gods belongs to-morrow.

II

     Underneath 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 shall on me 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 show’r? 
     Noble 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.

Cowley’s Translation.

          Gold

     A mighty pain to love