The pleasing wife, the house, the ground, Must all be left, no one plant found To follow thee, Save only the curs'd cypress tree; A merry mind Looks forward, scorns what's left behind; Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may, And here enjoy our holiday. W'ave seen the past best times, and these Will ne'er return; we see the seas And moons to wane But they fill up their ebbs again; But vanish'd man, Like to a lily lost, ne'er can, Ne'er can repullulate, or bring His days to see a second spring. But on we must, and thither tend, Where Anchus and rich Tullus blend Their sacred seed: Thus has infernal Jove decreed; We must be made, Ere long a song, ere long a shade. Why then, since life to us is short, Let's make it full up by our sport. Crown we our heads with roses then, And 'noint with Tyrian balm; for when We two are dead, The world with us is buried. Then live we free As is the air, and let us be Our own fair wind, and mark each one Day with the white and lucky stone. We are not poor, although we have No roofs of cedar, nor our brave Baiæ, nor keep Account of such a flock of sheep; Nor bullocks fed To lard the shambles: barbels bred To kiss our hands; nor do we wish For Pollio's lampreys in our dish. If we can meet and so confer Both by a shining salt-cellar, And have our roof, Although not arch'd, yet weather-proof, And ceiling free From that cheap candle bawdery; We'll eat our bean with that full mirth As we were lords of all the earth. Well then, on what seas we are toss'd, Our comfort is, we can't be lost. Let the winds drive Our barque, yet she will keep alive Amidst the deeps. 'Tis constancy, my Wickes, which keeps The pinnace up; which, though she errs I' th' seas, she saves her passengers. Say, we must part (sweet mercy bless Us both i' th' sea, camp, wilderness), Can we so far Stray to become less circular Than we are now? No, no, that self-same heart, that vow Which made us one, shall ne'er undo, Or ravel so to make us two. Live in thy peace; as for myself, When I am bruised on the shelf Of time, and show My locks behung with frost and snow; When with the rheum, The cough, the ptisick, I consume Unto an almost nothing; then The ages fled I'll call again,