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Rh Mis tunic shorten'd—standing near me,
 * His waist with rushy girdle bound,

With rosy wine let Cupid cheer me,
 * And serve the golden goblet round.

For, ah! with what unwearied pace
 * The ceaseless wheel of life runs on!

Just like the chariot's rapid race,
 * How swift the course, how quickly run!

Yet thus, alas! our moments fly;
 * Thus pass our fleeting years away;

And soon shall we neglected lie,
 * A little dust—a lump of clay!

Then why, when life's short scene is o'er,
 * Anoint a cold unconscious stone?

Why vainly rich libations pour,
 * Or call ray ghost with useless moan?