A Favourite Sonnet

Bring me flow'rs, and bring me wine; Boy, attend thy master's call; Round my brows let myrtles twine, At my feet let roses fall. Breathe in softest notes the flute, Form the song, and sound the lute; Let thy gentle acconts flow As the whisp'ring zephyrs blow.

Sorrow would annoy my heart, But I hate its baneful sting; Joys shall chase the rapid dart, For I will laugh, and I will sing. What avails the down-cast eye? What avails the tear, the sigh? Why should grief obstruct our way, When we live but for a day?