ODE XXV.—THE CURE FOR CARE.
When with gloomy griefs oppress'd,
Wine can charm those griefs to rest;
Toil and trouble, care and wo,
I'm determined ne'er to know.
Though in care my life were pass'd,
Cruel death would come at last.
Shall I ever anxious grieve?
Shall I thus myself deceive?
No! we'll drain the rosy bowl,
'Tis a cordial for the soul;
'Tis a charm that lulls to rest
Every anxious, aching breast.