Mirth - Poem by Anacreon
I divine Lyæus prize,
Who with mirth and wit supplies:
Compass'd with a jovial quire,
I affect to touch the lyre:
But of all my greatest joy
Is with sprightly maids to toy;
My free heart no envy bears,
Nor another's envy fears;
Proof against invective wrongs,
Brittle shafts of poisonous tongues.
Wine with quarrels sour'd I hate,
Or feasts season'd with debate:
But I love a harmless measure;
Life to quiet hath no pleasure.
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