TO LIVE MERRILY AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES by ROBERT HERRICK

Now is the time for mirth,
Nor cheek, or tongue be dumbe:
For with the flowrie earth,
The golden pomp is come.

The golden Pomp is come;
For now each tree do's weare
(Made of her Pap and Gum)
Rich beads of Amber here.

Now raignes the Rose, and now
Th' Arabian Dew besmears
My uncontrolled brow,
And my retorted haires.

Homer, this Health to thee,
In Sack of such a kind,
That it wo'd make thee see,
Though thou wert ne'r so blind.

Next, Virgil, Ile call forth,
To pledge this second Health
In Wine, whose each cup's worth
An Indian Common-wealth.

A Goblet next Ile drink
To Ovid; and suppose,
Made he the pledge, he'd think
The world had all one Nose.

Then this immensive cup
Of Aromatike wine,
Catullus, I quaffe up
To that Terce Muse of thine.

Wild I am now with heat;
O Bacchus! coole thy Raies!
Or frantick I shall eate
Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bayes.

Round, round, the roof do's run;
And being ravisht 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 smal return
Of ashes, scarce suffice
To fill a little Urne.

Trust to good Verses then;
They onely will aspire,
When Pyramids, as men,
Are lost, i'th'funerall fire.

And when all Bodies meet
In Lethe to be drown'd;
Then onely Numbers sweet,
With endless life are crown'd.

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