Let's not rhyme the hours away; Friends! we must no longer play: Brisk Lyaeus--see!--invites To more ravishing delights. Let's give o'er this fool Apollo, Nor his fiddle longer follow: Fie upon his forked hill, With his fiddlestick and quill; And the Muses, though they're gamesome, They are neither young nor handsome; And their freaks in sober sadness Are a mere poetic madness: Pegasus is but a horse; He that follows him is worse. See, the rain soaks to the skin, Make it rain as well within. Wine, my boy; we'll sing and laugh, All night revel, rant, and quaff; Till the morn, stealing behind us, At the table sleepless find us. When our bones, alas! shall have A cold lodging in the grave; When swift Death shall overtake us, We shall sleep and none can wake us. Drink we then the juice o' the vine Make our breasts Lyaeus' shrine; Bacchus, our debauch beholding, By thy image I am moulding, Whilst my brains I do replenish With this draught of unmixed Rhenish; By thy full-branched ivy twine; By this sparkling glass of wine; By thy Thyrsus so renowned: By the healths with which th' art crowned; By the feasts which thou dost prize; By thy numerous victories; By the howls by Moenads made; By this haut-gout carbonade; By thy colours red and white; By the tavern, thy delight; By the sound thy orgies spread; By the shine of noses red; By thy table free for all; By the jovial carnival; By thy language cabalistic; By thy cymbal, drum, and his stick; By the tunes thy quart-pots strike up; By thy sighs, the broken hiccup; By thy mystic set of ranters; By thy never-tamed panthers; By this sweet, this fresh and free air; By thy goat, as chaste as we are; By thy fulsome Cretan lass; By the old man on the ass; By thy cousins in mixed shapes; By the flower of fairest grapes; By thy bisks famed far and wide; By thy store of neats'-tongues dried; By thy incense, Indian smoke; By the joys thou dost provoke; By this salt Westphalia gammon; By these sausages that inflame one; By thy tall majestic flagons; By mass, tope, and thy flapdragons; By this olive's unctuous savour; By this orange, the wine's flavour; By this cheese o'errun with mites; By thy dearest favourites; To thy frolic order call us, Knights of the deep bowl install us; And to show thyself divine, Never let it want for wine. ANDREW MARVELL.