Catullus: V

Let us live and let us love,
Lesbia, caring not a curse
For the prate of sour old men.
Suns may set and rise again;
But for us, when our brief light
Once is set, waits one sheer night
To be spent in single slumber.

Give me a thousand kisses, love,
Then a hundred, — then rehearse,
Thousand, hundred, till they mount
Millions — and then blot the count;
Lest we know, — or some sore devil
Over-look and bring us evil,
Knowing all our kisses' number.