When my thirsty soul I steep,

Every sorrow's lulled 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,[1]

While my soul expands with glee,

What are kings and crowns to me?

If before my feet they lay,

I would spurn them all away;

Arm ye, arm ye, men of might,

Hasten to the sanguine fight;

But let me, my budding vine!

Spill no other blood than thine.

Yonder brimming goblet see,

That alone shall vanquish me—

Who think it better, wiser far

To fall in banquet than in war,

[1] "The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus [says Montfaucon], because he formerly lay hid under that tree, or as others will have it, because its leaves resemble those of the vine." Other reasons for its consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, Barnes, etc.