If Plutus with his riches can
Prolong the life of sordid man,
I will amass a store of gold.
When grown in heaping money old
And death shall bid me haste away
To Pluto’s realms ne’er known to day.
To him a sum of fold I’ll give
That I a longer term may live
But if frail mortals cannot buy
A transient life with gold — why sigh
In vain my days away — nor taste
Those pleasures which are gone in haste
Why should I weep, when death is sure,
Why seek not I, for care a cure
Give me ye Gods, ’tis all I ask,
A friend, a female, and a flask.
With these I’ll chace dull care away
And mirth shall ever round me play.