John Cunningham

Anacreon: Ode 36

Fill me that capacious cup,
Fill it to the margin up;
From my veins, the thirsty day
Quaffs the vital strength away.

Let a wreath my temples shield,
Fresh from the enamell'd field;
These declining roses bow,
Blasted by my sultry brow.

Flowrets, by their friendly aid,
From the sunbeams form a shade:
Let me from my heart require,
(Glowing with intense desire)
Is there, in the deepest grove,
Shelter from the beams of Love?