Chapter 12 No.12

Live in the living hour,

Fortune is fickle.

To thy lips, laughing flower,

Let good wine trickle.

Who hoardeth wealth to leave

He is a ne'er-do-well.

Who lives to rail and grieve

He is an infidel.

Rest in thy cypress shade,

Fill the cup higher,

Drink to each merry maid,

Drink to desire.

So saith the cup bearer,