Now.

TO LIVE MERRILY, AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES

     Now is the time for mirth;

     Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;

     For with [the] flowery earth

     The golden pomp is come.

     The golden pomp is come;

     For now each tree does wear,

     Made of her pap and gum,

     Rich beads of amber here.

     Now reigns the Rose, and now

     Th' Arabian dew besmears

     My uncontrolled brow,

     And my retorted hairs.

     Homer, this health to thee!

     In sack of such a kind,

     That it would make thee see,

     Though thou wert ne'er so blind

     Next, Virgil I'll call forth,

     To pledge this second health

     In wine, whose each cup's worth

     An Indian commonwealth.

     A goblet next I'll drink

     To Ovid; and suppose

     Made he the pledge, he'd think

     The world had all one nose.

     Then this immensive cup

     Of aromatic wine,

     Catullus!  I quaff up

     To that terse muse of thine.

     Wild I am now with heat:

     O Bacchus!  cool thy rays;

     Or frantic I shall eat

     Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays!

     Round, round, the roof does run;

     And being ravish'd thus,

     Come, I will drink a tun

     To my Propertius.

     Now, to Tibullus next,

     This flood I drink to thee;

     —But stay, I see a text,

     That this presents to me.

     Behold!  Tibullus lies

     Here burnt, whose small return

     Of ashes scarce suffice

     To fill a little urn.

     Trust to good verses then;

     They only will aspire,

     When pyramids, as men,

     Are lost i' th' funeral fire.

     And when all bodies meet

     In Lethe to be drown'd;

     Then only numbers sweet

     With endless life are crown'd.

Robert Herrick