Lethe's true draught is Massic wine;Fill high the goblet; pour out freeRich streams of unguent. Who will twineThe hasty wreath from myrtle-treeOr parsley? Whom will Venus seatChairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?Then I'll be sober. O, 'tis sweetTo fool, when friends come home again!Had chastisement for perjured truth,Barine, mark'd you with a curse—Did one wry nail, or one black tooth,But make you worse—I'd trust you; but, when plighted liesHave pledged you deepest, lovelier farYou sparkle forth, of all young eyesThe ruling star.'Tis gain to mock your mother's bones,And night's still signs, and all the sky,And gods, that on their glorious thronesChill Death defy.