THOUGH the peevish tongues upbraid,
  Though the brows of wisdom scowl,
Fair ones, here on roses laid,
  Careless will we quaff the bowl.

Let the cup, with nectar crowned,
  Through the grove its beams display;
It can shed a lustre round,
  Brighter than the torch of Day.

Let it pass from hand to hand,
  Circling still with ceaseless flight,
Till the streaks of gray expand
  O’er the fleeting robe of Night.

As Night flits, she does but cry.
  "Seize the moments that remain":
Thus our joys with yours shall vie,
  Tenants of yon hallowed fane!