Still, as the fleeting seasons change,
From joy to joy poor mortals range,
And as the year pursues its round,
One pleasure's lost, another found;
Time, urging on his envious course,
Still drives them from their last resource.
So butterflies, when children chase
The gaudy prize with eager pace,
On each fresh flower but just alight,
And, ere they taste, renew their flight.
Thanks to kind Fortune! I possess
A constant source of happiness,
And am not poorly forced to live
On what the seasons please to give.
Let clouds or sunshine vest the pole,
What care I, while I quaff the bowl?
In that secure, I can defy
The changeful temper of the sky.
No weatherglass, or if I be,
Thou, Bacchus! art my Mercury.