If I thought that Gold had power
To prolong my Life one hour,
I should lay it up, to see
Death, when come to summon me;
But if Life cannot be bought,
Why complain I then for nought?
Death not brib'd at any price,
To what end is Avarice?
Fill me then some Wine; but see
That it brisk and racy be,
Such as may cold bloods inflame,
For by Bacchus arm'd, wee'l aime
At Cythera 's highest pleasure;
Wine and Love's the onely treasure.