Atys, as old poets tell,
Madly howled Cybele's name,
Wandering by mount and dell.

Shouted they with loud acclaim
Who had drunk of Clarus' spring,
Thrilled with mad prophetic grame.

Joyous carols will I sing,
Worshipping at Bacchus' shrine,
And care to the winds will fling.

Roses on my brows I'll twine,
And with perfumes saturate
Prove the joys of love and wine.