_Ode Xix._

When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep. Talk of monarchs! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men; Careless, o'er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king; Gives me wealthy Croesus' store, Can I, can I wish for more? On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining, While my soul dilates with glee, What are kings and crowns to me?

If before my feet they lay, I would spurn them all away! Arm you, arm you, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight; Let me, oh my budding vine, Spill no other blood than thine. Yonder brimming goblet see, That alone shall vanquish me. Oh! I think it sweeter far To fall in banquet than in war!