Note 208 — Chapter XXI · THE ANTHOLOGY.
Reading edition
Thou sleepest, friend: but see, the beakers call! Awake, nor dote on death that waits for all. Spare not, my Diodorus, but drink free Till Bacchus loose each weak and faltering knee. Long will the years be when we can't carouse— Long, long: up then ere age hath touched our brows.