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 When, with wild joys and sorrows broken quite,

I face the morning of the endless night,

Still shall I call for wine, and still for thee,

And Pleasure close the eyes she once kept bright.

Not all the fancies of the devotee

Shall make fair pleasure aught but fair for me:

These things are good—this woman and this wine;

Shall I exchange them for—hypocrisy?

Wrong not thyself, believing God to please,

Nor think to serve Him by such lies as these,

Break not for fashion an eternal law,

Nor change true pleasures for false pieties.

Sunday is good for drinking, Monday too,

Nor yet on Tuesday put the wine from you,

Wednesday drink deep, Thursday nor Friday fail—

On Saturday is nothing else to do.