“Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.[4] “We are men of ruin’d blood; Therefore comes it we are wise. Fish are we that love the mud. Rising to no fancy-flies. “Name and fame! to fly sublime Thro’ the courts, the camps, the schools, Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied by the hands of fools. “Friendship!—to be two in one— Let the canting liar pack! Well I know, when I am gone, How she mouths behind my back. “Virtue!—to be good and just— Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix’d with cunning sparks of hell. “O! we two as well can look Whited thought and cleanly life As the priest, above his book Leering at his neighbour’s wife. “Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.[4] “Drink, and let the parties rave: They are fill’d with idle spleen; Rising, falling, like a wave, For they know not what they mean. “He that roars for liberty Faster binds a tyrant’s[5] power; And the tyrant’s cruel glee Forces on the freer hour. “Fill the can, and fill the cup: All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. “Greet her with applausive breath, Freedom, gaily doth she tread; In her right a civic wreath, In her left a human head. “No, I love not what is new; She is of an ancient house: And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows. “Let her go! her thirst she slakes Where the bloody conduit runs: Then her sweetest meal she makes On the first-born of her sons. “Drink to lofty hopes that cool— Visions of a perfect State: Drink we, last, the public fool, Frantic love and frantic hate. “Chant me now some wicked stave, Till thy drooping courage rise, And the glow-worm of the grave Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. “Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; Set thy hoary fancies free; What is loathsome to the young Savours well to thee and me. “Change, reverting to the years, When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears, And the warmth of hand in hand. “Tell me tales of thy first love— April hopes, the fools of chance; Till the graves begin to move, And the dead begin to dance. “Fill the can, and fill the cup: All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. “Trooping from their mouldy dens The chap-fallen circle spreads: Welcome, fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and empty heads! “You are bones, and what of that? Every face, however full, Padded round with flesh and fat, Is but modell’d on a skull. “Death is king, and Vivat Rex! Tread a measure on the stones, Madam—if I know your sex, From the fashion of your bones. “No, I cannot praise the fire In your eye—nor yet your lip: All the more do I admire Joints of cunning workmanship. “Lo! God’s likeness—the ground-plan— Neither modell’d, glazed, or framed: Buss me thou rough sketch of man, Far too naked to be shamed!