O ask not what those sons of war,Cantabrian, Scythian, each intend,Disjoin'd from us by Hadria's bar,Nor puzzle, Quintius, how to spendA life so simple. Youth removes,And Beauty too; and hoar DecayDrives out the wanton tribe of LovesAnd Sleep, that came or night or day.The sweet spring-flowers not always keepTheir bloom, nor moonlight shines the sameEach evening. Why with thoughts too deepO'ertask a mind of mortal frame?Why not, just thrown at careless ease'Neath plane or pine, our locks of greyPerfumed with Syrian essencesAnd wreathed with roses, while we may,