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,