Robert Herrick (Роберт Геррик (Херрик))
To Live Merrily, and to Trust to Good Verses
Now is the time for mirth; Nor cheek or tongue be dumb; For with [the] flowery earth The golden pomp is come. The golden pomp is come; For now each tree does wear, Made of her pap and gum, Rich beads of amber here. Now reigns the Rose, and now Th' Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow, And my retorted hairs. Homer, this health to thee! In sack of such a kind, That it would make thee see, Though thou wert ne'er so blind Next, Virgil I'll call forth, To pledge this second health In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian commonwealth. A goblet next I'll drink To Ovid; and suppose Made he the pledge, he'd think The world had all one nose. Then this immensive cup Of aromatic wine, Catullus! I quaff up To that terse muse of thine. Wild I am now with heat: O Bacchus! cool thy rays; Or frantic I shall eat Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays! Round, round, the roof does run; And being ravish'd thus, Come, I will drink a tun To my Propertius. Now, to Tibullus next, This flood I drink to thee; —But stay, I see a text, That this presents to me. Behold! Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn. Trust to good verses then; They only will aspire, When pyramids, as men, Are lost i' th' funeral fire. And when all bodies meet In Lethe to be drown'd; Then only numbers sweet With endless life are crown'd.
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