Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          QUICK! we have but a second,

                Fill round the cup while you may;

          For time, the churl, hath beckon’d,

                And we must away, away!

          Grasp the pleasure that’s flying,

                For oh, not Orpheus’ strain

          Could keep sweet hours from dying,

                Or charm them to life again.

                    Then, quick! we have but a second,

                          Fill round the cup while you may!

                    For Time, the churl hath beckon’d,

                          And we must away, away.

          See the glass, how it flushes,

                Like some young Hebe’s lip,

          And half meets thine, and blushes

                That thou shouldst delay to sip.

          Shame, oh shame unto thee,

                If ever thou see’st that day,

          When a cup or lip shall woo thee,

                And turn untouch’d away!

                    Then, quick! we have but a second,

                          Fill round, fill round while you may,

                    For Time, the churl, hath beckon’d,

                          And we must away, away!