Abraham Cowley (1618–1667)

(Anacreontiques)

UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,

On flowery beds supinely laid,

With odorous oils my head o’erflowing,

And around it roses growing,

What should I do but drink away

The heat, and troubles of the day?

In this more than kingly state,

Love himself shall on me wait.

Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up;

And mingled cast into the cup,

Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,

Vigorous health, and gay desires.

The wheel of life no less will stay

In a smooth then rugged way.

Since it equally does flee,

Let the motion pleasant be.

Why do precious ointments shower,

Nobler wines why do we pour,

Beauteous flowers why do we spread,

Upon the monuments of the dead?

Nothing they but dust can show,

Or bones that hasten to be so.

Crown me with roses whilst I live,

Now your wines and ointments give.

After death I nothing crave,

Let me alive my pleasures have,

All are Stoics in the grave.