Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt die.
 Surely the earth, that's wise being very old,
 Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold
 Thy sultry hair up from my face; that I
 May pour for thee this golden wine, brim-high,
 Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold.
 We'll drown all hours: thy song, while hours are toll'd,
 Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky.

 Now kiss, and think that there are really those,
 My own high-bosom'd beauty, who increase
 Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way!
 Through many years they toil; then on a day
 They die not,--for their life was death,--but cease;
 And round their narrow lips the mould falls close.