Les Parques

Sages, simples, beggar, king,
Listen—something new I sing!
Bacchus dries his cellar up,
Filling the Weird Sisters' cup:
'Tis to please the Loves alone,
Chanting in their lustiest tone,
“Mortals! each should have in store
Joyous days, when youth is o'er.”

Atropos, whose fatal shears
All the world for ever fears,
Drinking long, and drinking neat,
Drops asleep upon her seat;
Whilst her sisters at their task
Smile on those who favors ask
Mortals! each should have in store
Joyous days, when youth is o'er.

Lachesis, a bumper pouring,
Says that Atropos is snoring;
But she fears her thread, mayhap—
'Tis so dry and fine—will snap.
“Ay, this nectar must,” quoth she,
“Wet it—'tis so good for me.”
Mortals! earth should have in store
Joyous days, when youth is o'er.

Still her mighty distaff working,
“Yes,” says Clotho, “yes—no shirking!
I'm for watering with wine
Furrows, where this flax of mine
Grows in seed—this kind of dew
Always makes it sprout anew”
Mortals! each should have in store
Joyous days, when youth is o'er.

Whilst the Fates, thus seeing double,
Spin our days off, free from trouble,
We, our liquor gaily taking,
Fear lest Atropos be waking;
Let the Loves her sleep prolong—
Every morn shall hear our song,
“Mortals! each should have in store
Joyous days, when youth is o'er.”