Part 2 — TIME'S A-FLYING.
John Addington Symonds translation
No. 48.
Laurel-crowned Horatius, True, how true thy saying! Swift as wind flies over us Time, devouring, slaying. Where are, oh! those goblets full Of wine honey-laden, Strifes and loves and bountiful Lips of ruddy maiden? Grows the young grape tenderly, And the maid is growing; But the thirsty poet, see, Years on him are snowing! What's the use on hoary curls Of the bays undying. If we may not kiss the girls, Drink while time's a-flying?
The second consists of a truly brilliant development of the theme which our Herrick condensed into one splendid phrase—"There's no lust like to poetry!"