Now is the time for mirth,
 Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
For with the flow'ry earth
 The golden pomp is come.

The golden pomp is come;
 For now each tree does wear,
Made of her pap and gum,
 Rich beads of amber here.

Now reigns the rose, and now
 Th' Arabian dew besmears
My uncontrolled brow
 And my retorted hairs.

Homer, this health to thee,
 In sack of such a kind
That it would make thee see
 Though thou wert ne'er so blind.

Next, Virgil I'll call forth
 To pledge this second health
In wine, whose each cup's worth
 An Indian commonwealth.

A goblet next I'll drink
 To Ovid, and suppose,
Made he the pledge, he'd think
 The world had all one nose.

Then this immensive cup
 Of aromatic wine,
Catullus, I quaff up
 To that terse muse of thine.

Wild I am now with heat;
 O Bacchus! cool thy rays!
Or frantic, I shall eat
 Thy thyrse, and bite the bays.

Round, round the roof does run;
 And being ravish'd thus,
Come, I will drink a tun
 To my Propertius.

Now, to Tibullus, next,
 This flood I drink to thee;
But stay, I see a text
 That this presents to me.

Behold, Tibullus lies
 Here burnt, whose small return
Of ashes scarce suffice
 To fill a little urn.

Trust to good verses then;
 They only will aspire,
When pyramids, as men,
 Are lost i' th' funeral fire.

And when all bodies meet,
 In Lethe to be drown'd,
Then only numbers sweet
 With endless life are crown'd.