Where sundry goddesses and groundlings mingle—
Where modest Martha’s conduct grows bizarre,
And Virtue’s self is often short a shingle:
And soaked, thus, in the dregs of beer and wine,
Once more I shy the garland at your shrine!
Yet, after all, the joyous feet of Spring
Trip to the tune the pipes of Pan are playing
In every clime where Youth may have its fling,
And Love, unweighted by life’s cares, goes straying.
Look not where last year’s rose lies withering!