| UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, | |
| On flowerly beds supinely laid, | |
| With odorous oils my head o'erflowing, | |
| And around it roses growing, | |
| What should I do but drink away | 5 |
| The heat and troubles of the day? | |
| In this more than kingly state | |
| Love himself on me shall wait. | |
| Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up! | |
| And mingled cast into the cup | 10 |
| Wit and mirth and noble fires, | |
| Vigorous health and gay desires. | |
| The wheel of life no less will stay | |
| In a smooth than rugged way: | |
| Since it equally doth flee, | 15 |
| Let the motion pleasant be. | |
| Why do we precious ointments shower?— | |
| Nobler wines why do we pour?— | |
| Beauteous flowers why do we spread | |
| Upon the monuments of the dead? | 20 |
| Nothing they but dust can show, | |
| Or bones that hasten to be so. | |
| Crown me with roses while I live, | |
| Now your wines and ointments give: | |
| After death I nothing crave, | 25 |
| Let me alive my pleasures have: | |
| All are Stoics in the grave. | |
