UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, <br />On flowerly beds supinely laid, <br />With odorous oils my head o'erflowing, <br />And around it roses growing, <br />What should I do but drink away <br />The heat and troubles of the day? <br />In this more than kingly state <br />Love himself on me shall wait. <br />Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up! <br />And mingled cast into the cup <br />Wit and mirth and noble fires, <br />Vigorous health and gay desires. <br />The wheel of life no less will stay <br />In a smooth than rugged way: <br />Since it equally doth flee, <br />Let the motion pleasant be. <br />Why do we precious ointments shower?-- <br />Nobler wines why do we pour?-- <br />Beauteous flowers why do we spread <br />Upon the monuments of the dead? <br />Nothing they but dust can show, <br />Or bones that hasten to be so. <br />Crown me with roses while I live, <br />Now your wines and ointments give: <br />After death I nothing crave, <br />Let me alive my pleasures have: <br />All are Stoics in the grave.<br /><br />Abraham Cowley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anacreontics-the-epicure/
