Arrange the cups of various size,
The least containing bumpers three,
And nine the rest.—Come, no disguise!
Nor yet constraint, the choice is free!
All but the Bard's—the bowl of nine
He is, in duty, bound to fill;
The Muses number to decline
Were treason at Aonia's hill.
For here the Sisters shall preside,
So they allow us leave to laugh;
Unzon'd the Graces round us glide,
While we the liquid ruby quaff.
Yet they, in kind and guardian care,
Dreading left wild inebriate glee
With broils disturb our light career,
Would stint us to their number, three.
Away ye Prudes!—the caution wise
Becomes not this convivial hour,
That every dull restraint defies,
And laughs at all their frigid power.—
Thou say'st I rave;—and true thou say'st,
Nor must thou check the flowing vein,
For sprightly nonsense suits him best
Whom grave reflection leads to pain.
Why mute the pipe's enlivening note?
Why sleeps the charming lyre so long?
O! let their strains around us float,
Mix'd with the sweet and jocund song!
And lavish be the roses strewn!
Ye flutes, ye lyres, exulting breathe!
The festal Hour disdains to own
The mournful note, the niggard wreath.
Old Lycon, with the venal Fair,
Who courts yet hates his vile embrace,
Our lively strains shall muttering hear,
While Envy pales each sullen face:
Thou, with thy dark luxuriant hair,
Thou, Telephus, as Hesper bright,
Thou art accomplish'd Chloe's care,
Whose glance is Love's delicious light.