Be passion’s slave, be pleasure’s thrall,—
But be it utterly, all in all!
Be not to-day, to-morrow, one,
Another when a year is gone;
Be what you are with all your heart,
And not by pieces and in part.
The Bacchant’s clear, defined, complete,
The sot, his sordid counterfeit;
Silenus charms; but all his graces
The drunkard’s parody debases.