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VIII. The Epicure.

Fill the Bowl with rosie Wine,
Around our temples Roses twine.
And let us chearfully awhile,
Like the Wine and Roses smile.
Crown'd with Roses we contemn
Gyge's wealthy Diadem.

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To day is Ours; what do we fear?
To day is Ours; we have it here.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay.
Let's banish Business, banish Sorrow;
To the Gods belongs To morrow.