Ah, fill the Cup:—what boots it to repeat How Time is slipping underneath our Feet: Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday, Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!
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"For let us make our Fête of to-day, for to-morrow we are gone, and what we have enjoyed is gone, and we are gone, and gone is our memory too."
"Better to be intoxicated with wine than with the vain hopes of this world."
"Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing."
"What, without asking, hither hurried whence? And, without asking, whither hurried hence! Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that Hour of thine!"
"Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore—but was I sober when I swore?"
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