O ask not what those sons of war,Cantabrian, Scythian, each intend,Disjoin'd from us by Hadria's bar,Nor puzzle, Quintius, how to spendA life so simple. Youth removes,And Beauty too; and hoar DecayDrives out the wanton tribe of LovesAnd Sleep, that came or night or day.The sweet spring-flowers not always keepTheir bloom, nor moonlight shines the sameEach evening. Why with thoughts too deepO'ertask a mind of mortal frame?Why not, just thrown at careless ease'Neath plane or pine, our locks of greyPerfumed with Syrian essencesAnd wreathed with roses, while we may,Lie drinking? Bacchus puts to shameThe cares that waste us. Where's the slaveTo quench the fierce Falernian's flameWith water from the passing wave?