Richest, happiest, first of men.
When I drink, my heart refines
And rises as the cup declines;
Rises in the genial flow,
That none but social spirits know.
To-day we'll haste to quaff our wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then—
We'll haste to quaff our wine again.
Let me, oh, my budding vine,