The Epicure.

FIll the Bowl with rosie Wine,
Around our temples Roses twine,
And let us chearfully awhile;
Like the Wine and Roses smile.
Crown'd with Roses we contemn
Gyge's wealthy Diadem.
To day is Ours; what do we feare?
To day is Ours; we have it here.
Let's treat it kindely, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay.
Let's banish Business, banish Sorrow;
To the Gods belongs To morrow.