Drink till after twelve or more,
Live it up with madmen !
Earth is but my chamber floor
And the sun my lantern.
Nothing else is worth a pin
If my head but giddy spin,
Giddy spin, giddy spin,
Giddy spin, giddy spin,
Until it's so drowsy
Nothing more can rouse me.


In my grandad's overcoat,
Torn and out at elbows,
Here I stand, on brandy dote,
'Mid the queerest fellows;
Out of pretty goblets bright
Tipple morning noon and night,
Noon and night, noon and night,
Noon and night, noon and night,

OH, golden-lilied Queen—immortal France!
Thou heritress of storied name and deed,
As thou hast pluck’d, so oft, from cumb’ring weed
The fragrant flow’rs of Freedom and Romance,
So shalt thou seize to-day the fateful chance
That comes to thee in this thy hour of need,
When once again thy sacred frontiers bleed
Beneath the thrust of the Invader’s lance.

For, with the hour, hath also come again
The pure and splendid spirit of the Maid
To nerve they sons and wipe away thy tears,

Alas, I am in love with a soft-skinned boy, who to all my friends
Reveals that this is true, though he does so against my will.
I shall endure without concealment the many outrages done in my despite,
For not ill-favored is the boy whose conquest I am shown to be.
The love of boys has given delight ever since Ganymede
Was loved by Kronos' son himself, king of the immortals,
Who seized and brought him up to Olympos and made him
Divine, possessing as he did the lovely bloom of boyhood.
So do not be amazed, Simonides, that I as well have been

To beget and rear a man is easier than to put good sense
Inside him. No one yet has ever contrived a way
To make the senseless sensible and good men out of bad.
If the sons of Asklepios had this gift from the god,
To work a cure on badness and men's infatuate wits,
Many and great would be the fees they earned.
And if understanding could be fashioned and placed in a man,
Never would a good man's son have turned out bad,
By heeding the words of sensible counsel. But as it is, no teaching
Will ever serve to make the bad man good.

Among rams and asses and horses, Kyrnos, we look for those
Of noble breeding, and a man wants them to mate
From worthy stock. Yet a noble man does not mind marrying
A base woman of base birth if she brings him money in abundance,
Nor does a woman shrink from becoming the wife of a base man
With wealth; she prefers a rich husband to a worthy one.
Money is what they honor; the noble weds a base man's daughter,
The base a worthy man's: wealth mixes stock.
Thus do not be amazed, son of Polypaos, that the citizen's stock

Kyrnos, as I work my craft let a seal be set upon
These words of mine, and they will never be stolen unremarked,
Nor will anyone change the good that is there to something worse;
And this is what everyone will say: 'These are the lines of Theognis,
The man from Megara' -- famous throughout all peoples.
But all my fellow citizens I have not yet been able to please.
This is nothing to wonder at, son of Polypaos, for not even Zeus
Pleases everyone, whether he rains or holds it back.
To you with kindly intent I offer such advice as I myself,

O lord, son of Leto, child of Zeus, you I shall never
Forget, either beginning or coming to an end,
But always, first and last and in the middle,
I shall sing of you. And you, hear me and grant good things.

WHEN, upon the well-wrought chest,
Fiercely heat the howling wind,
And the oceans heaving breast
Filled with terror DanaCs mind ;
All in tears, her arm she throws
Over Perseus, as he lay
0, my babe, she said, what woes
On thy mothers bosom weigh!

Thou dost sleep with careless breast,
Slumbering in this dreary home,
Thou dost sweetly take thy rest,
In the darkness and the gloom.

In thy little mantle there,
Passing wave thou dost not mind,
Dashing oer thy clustering hair,
Nor fhe voices of the wind.

When Nature tries her finest touch,
Weaving her vernal wreath,
Mark ye, how close she veils her round,
Not to be traced by sight or sound,
Nor soiled by ruder breath?

Who ever saw the earliest rose
First open her sweet breast?
Or, when the summer sun goes down,
The first soft star in evening's crown
Light up her gleaming crest?

Fondly we seek the dawning bloom
On features wan and fair,
The gazing eye no change can trace,
But look away a little space,
Then turn, and lo! 'tis there.

It was not then a poet's dream,
An idle vaunt of song,
Such as beneath the moon's soft gleam
On vacant fancies throng;

Which bids us see in heaven and earth,
In all fair things around,
Strong yearnings for a blest new birth
With sinless glories crowned;

Which bids us hear, at each sweet pause
From care and want and toil,
When dewy eve her curtain draws
Over the day's turmoil,

In the low chant of wakeful birds,
In the deep weltering flood,
In whispering leaves, these solemn words -