Anacreontic

Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear,
While yonder Censor mounts the chair:
His form erect, his stately pace,
His huge, white wig, his solemn face,
His scowling brows, his ken severe,
His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer,
Some high Philosopher declare:
Hush! let us hear him from the chair:

'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth;
How ill-beseeming sons of earth!
Know ye not well the fate of man?
That death is certain, life a span?
That merriment soon sinks in sorrow,
Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow?
Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice,
That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'

Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine,
Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.
        Since mortals must die,
        Since life's but a span,
        'Tis wisdom, say I,
        To live while we can,
        And fill up with pleasure
        The poor little measure.
        Of fate to complain
        How simple and vain!
        Long faces I hate;
        They shorten the date.
        My Friends! while ye may,
        Be jovial to-day;
        The things that will be
        Ne'er wish to foresee;
        Or, should ye employ
        Your thoughts on to-morrow,
        Let Hope sing of joy,
        Not Fear croak of sorrow.
But see! the Sage flies, so no more.
Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before.