Horace, Book I. Ode IV

Conquer'd with soft and pleasing charms, And never-failing vows of her return, Winter unlocks his frosty arms To free the joyful Spring: Which for fresh loves with youthful heat does burn; Warm south-winds court her, and with fruitful shower Awake the drowsy flowers, Who haste, and all their sweetness bring To pay their yearly offering. No nipping white is seen. But all the fields are clad with pleasant green. And only fragrant dews now fall: The ox forsakes his once-warm stall To bask i' th' sun's much warmer beams; The ploughman leaves his fire and his sleep, Well pleas'd to whistle to his labouring teams; Whilst the glad shepherd pipes to frisking sheep. Nay, tempted by the smiling sky, Wreck'd merchants quit the shore. Resolving once again to try The wind and sea's almighty power; Chusing much rather to be dead than poor. Upon the flowery plains, Or under shady trees, The shepherdesses and their swains Dance to their rural harmonies; They steal in private to the covert groves, There finish their well-heighten'd loves. The city dame takes this pretence (Weary of husband and of innocence) To quit the smoke and business of the town, And to her country-house retires, Where she may bribe, then grasp, some brawny clown, Or her appointed gallant come To feed her loose desires; Whilst the poor dotard by his sweat at home Maintains her lust and pride, Blest as he thinks in such a beauteous bride. Since all the world's thus gay and free, Why should not we? Let's then accept our mother nature's treat, And please ourselves with all that's sweet; Let's to the shady bowers, Where, crown'd with gaudy flowers, We 'll drink and laugh away the gliding hours. For, trust me, Thyrsis, the grim conqueror Death With the same freedom snatches a king's breath, He huddles the poor fetter'd slave, To 's unknown grave. Though each day we with cost repair, He mocks our greatest skill and utmost care; Nor loves the fair, nor fears the strong, And he that lives the longest, dies but young; And, once depriv'd of light, We 're wrapt in mists of endless night. Once come to those dark cells of which we're told So many strange romantic tales of old, (In things unknown invention 's justly bold); No more shall mirth and wine Our loves and wits refine; No more shall you your Phyllis have, Phyllis so long you 've priz'd: Nay she too in the grave Shall lie like us despis'd.