In the span that's allotted then crowd every joy;
Let the goblet run high if in dreams you delight;
Though wine to true pleasure is oft an alloy,
And sober reflection grows sick at the sight.
Disguis'd are our pleasures, as well as our woes;
On their choice must depend half the turn of our fate;
With the tint of the mind every circumstance glows,
And gives to life's trifles their colour and weight.