Ode Bachique — De Monsieur Racan

Now that the Day's short and forlorn,
Dull Melancholy Capricorn
To Chimney-corners Men translate,
Drown we our Sorrows in the glass,
And let the thoughts of Warfare pass,
The Clergy, and the third Estate.

Menard, I know what thou hast writ,
That spritely issue of thy Wit
Will live whilst there are men to read:
But, what if they recorded be
In Memory's Temple, boots it thee,
When thou art gnawn by Worms, and dead?

Henceforth those fruitless studies spare,
Let's rather drink until we stare
Of this immortal juyce of ours,
Which does in excellence precede
The Beverage which Gannimede
Into th' Immortals Goblet pours.

The Juyce that sparkles in this glass
Makes tedious Years like Days to pass,
Yet makes us younger still become,
By this from lab'ring thoughts are chac't
The sorrow 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,
Haling us with him to our Urn,
In vain we sue to it to stay,
For Years like Rivers pass away,
And never, never do return.

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

Deaths Laws are Universal, and
In Princes Palaces command,
As well as in the poorest Hutt,
We're to the Parcae subject all,
The threds of Clown's and Monarchs shall,
Be both by the same Cizors cut.

Their rigours which all this deface,
Will ravish in a little space,
What ever we most lasting make,
And soon will lead us out to drink,
Beyond the pitchy Rivers Brink,
The waters of Oblivion's Lake.