For here the Sisters shall preside, So they allow us leave to laugh; Unzon'd the Graces round us glide, While we the liquid ruby quaff. Yet _they_, in kind and guardian care, Dreading left wild inebriate glee With broils disturb our light career, Would stint us to their number, _three_. Away ye Prudes!--the caution wise Becomes not this convivial hour, That every dull restraint defies, And laughs at all their frigid power.-- Thou say'st I rave;--and _true_ thou say'st, Nor must thou check the flowing vein, For sprightly nonsense suits him best Whom grave reflection leads to pain. Why mute the pipe's enlivening note? Why sleeps the charming lyre so long? O! let their strains around us float, Mix'd with the sweet and jocund song! And lavish be the roses strewn! Ye flutes, ye lyres, exulting breathe! The festal Hour disdains to own The mournful note, the niggard wreath. Old Lycon, with the venal Fair, Who courts yet hates his vile embrace, Our lively strains shall muttering hear, While Envy pales each sullen face: THOU, with thy dark luxuriant hair, Thou, Telephus, as Hesper bright, Thou art accomplish'd Chloe's care, Whose glance is Love's delicious light. Thy utmost wish the Fair-One crowns, And thy calm'd heart may well pursue The paths of knowledge;--Lyce frowns, And I, distasteful, shun their view. From themes, that wake the powers of mind, The wounded Spirit sick'ning turns; To those be then _this_ hour consign'd, That Mirth approves, tho' Wisdom spurns. They shall disarm my Lyce's frown, The frolic jest, the lively strain, In flowing bowls, shall gaily drown The memory of her cold disdain.