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    When our thirsty souls we steep,
    Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep.
    Talk of monarchs! we are then
    Richest, happiest, first of men.

    When I drink, my heart refines
    And rises as the cup declines;
    Rises in the genial flow,
    That none but social spirits know.

    To-day we'll haste to quaff our wine,
    As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
    But if to-morrow comes, why then -
    We'll haste to quaff our wine again.

    Let me, oh, my budding vine,
    Spill no other blood than thine.
    Yonder brimming goblet see,
    That alone shall vanquish me.

    I pray thee, by the gods above,
    Give me the mighty howl I love,
    And let me sing, in wild delight.
    "I will - I will be mad to-night!"

    When Father Time swings round his scythe,
    Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine,
    So that its juices red and blythe,
    May cheer these thirsty bones of mine.

        - Eugene Field.



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