Ode Bacchique de Monsieur Racau

Now that the Day's short, and forlorn
Of Melancholick Capricorn
To Chimny-corners Men translate:
Drown we our Sorrows in the Glass,
And let the thoughts of Warfare pass,
The Clergy and the Third Estate.

Maynard, I know what thou hast writ,
That sprightly issue of thy Wit,
Will live whilst there are Men to read:
But what if they recorded be
In Memories Temple, boots it thee,
When thou art gnawnby Worms, and dead?

Henceforth those fruitless Studies spare,
Let's rather Drink until we stare.
Of this delicious Juice of ours:
Which does in excellence precede
The beverage which Ganimede
Into th' Immortals Geblet pours.

The Juice that sparkles in this Glass,
Make tedious Years, like Days, to pass;
Yet makes us younger still become;
By this from lab'ring Thoughts are chas't,
The Sorrows of those ills are past,
And terrour of the ills to come.

Let us Drink brimmers then, Time's fleet,
And steals away with winged Feet
Halling us with him to our Urn:
In vain we sue to it to stay;
For Years like Rivers slide away,
And never, never do return.

When the Spring comes attir'd in Green
Then Winter flies, and is not seen,
New Tides do still supply the Main:
But when our frolick Youth's once gone,
And Age has ta'ne Possession;
Time ne're restores us that again.

Death's Laws are universal, and
In Princes Pallaces command,
As well as in the Poorest Hut:
We're to the Parcae subject all
The Threads of Clowns, and Monarchs shall
Be both by the same Cizors cut.

Their rigours, which all things deface,
Will ravish in a little space
Whatever we most lasting make;
And soon will lead us out to drink
Beyond the Pitchy Rivers brink
The Waters of oblivious Lake.