IX.
Another.
UNderneath this Myrtle shade,
On flowry beds supinely laid,
With od'orous Oyls my head ore-flowing,
And around it Roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The Heat, and troubles of the Day?
In this more then Kingly state,
Love himself shall on me waite.
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 then Rugged way.
Since it equally does flee,
Let the Motion pleasant be.
Why do we pretious Oyntments shower,
Nobler wines why do we pour,
Beauteous Flowers why do we spread,
Upon the Mon'uments of the Dead?
Nothing they but Dust can show,
Or Bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with Roses whilst I Live,
Now your Wines and Oyntments give.
After Death I nothing crave,
Let me Alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoicks in the Grave. |
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