All the past with ease is read,
But the future who can know?
Hence! away, distracting cares,
Make no fellowship with me;
Point not to my silvering hairs,
You and I shall ne'er agree.
Ere fate forbid all further joy,
First amid the festive throng,
Bacchus shall my hours employ
With mirth, and dance, and joyous song.
ODE XXV.—THE CURE FOR CARE.
When with gloomy griefs oppress'd,
Wine can charm those griefs to rest;
Toil and trouble, care and wo,
I'm determined ne'er to know.
Though in care my life were pass'd,
Cruel death would come at last.
Shall I ever anxious grieve?
Shall I thus myself deceive?
No! we'll drain the rosy bowl,
'Tis a cordial for the soul;
'Tis a charm that lulls to rest
Every anxious, aching breast.
ODE XXVI.—IN PRAISE OF WINE.
When the nectar'd bowl I drain
Gloomy cares forego their reign;
Richer than the Lydian king,
Hymns of love and joy I sing;
Ivy wreaths my temples twine,
And, while careless I recline,
While bright scenes my vision greet,
Tread the world beneath my feet.
