Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire;
Phœbus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect, happy thou!
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But, when thou’st drunk, and danc’d, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
(Voluptuous and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)