ODE XXVI.—IN PRAISE OF WINE.
When the nectar'd bowl I drain
Gloomy cares forego their reign;
Richer than the Lydian king,
Hymns of love and joy I sing;
Ivy wreaths my temples twine,
And, while careless I recline,
While bright scenes my vision greet,
Tread the world beneath my feet.
Fill the cup, my trusty page,
Anacreon, the blithe and sage,
As his maxim, ever said,
Those slain by wine are noble dead.