Classic Poem

Crown me Bacchus, mighty god,
The victory is thine,
Cupid's bow yields to thy rod,
And love submits to wine:

Love, the dream of idle boys,
That makes the sage an ass,
Love cannot vie with those sweet joys
That crown the sparkling glass.

II.

To plunge in care let lovers whine,
Such fools who will be may,
Good fellows glass in hand combine
To drive pale care away:

With grief of heart, how many a boy
Goes mad to please some lass;
We too go mad, but 'tis with joy,
Fir'd by the sparkling glass.

III.

How many dangle on a tree
Who buckle to love's tether,
True to our honest purpose we
Hang too, but 'tis together:

The lover numbers, by his sighs,
The moments as they pass,
We count them in a way more wise,
By putting round the glass.

IV.

See in his cage the husband sing,
Wife, children, squall sonorous,
We make the air and glasses ring,
While singing freedom's chorus:

No never shall presumptuous love
The joys of wine surpass,
Worn out by bickerings, even Jove
Seeks Bacchus and his glass.