I

Come, lie to us, let us glow; Pour out the red wine; speak; Pour out the sweet lies—so We shall be warm and sleek.

Tell us in manner high The flattering things that soothe; But hush the outer cry And crush the inner truth.

What matters all the din Of truth—discordant cries? We quaff the joyous wine And lap ourselves in lies.

The lordly anthem peals The while the people rot; The gilded church reveals The penury of their lot.

No matter—let them starve! The gorgeous mass atones; These glorious arches serve To sepulchre their bones.

Come, hymn the dying wretch With pæans on the harps; Nard and vermilion fetch To paint and scent the corpse.