Classic Poem

Now with Roses we are crown'd
Let our mirth and cups go round:
Whilst a Lasse, whose hand a spear
Branch'd with Ivy twines doth bear,
With her white feet beats the ground,
To the Lutes harmonious sound,
Playd on by some Boy whose choice
Skill is heightned by his voice:
Bright-haird Love, with his divine
Mother, and the God of wine,
Will flock hither, glad to see
Old men of their companie.