Wormwood and rue be on his tongue And ashes on his head, Who chills the feast and checks the song With emblems of the dead! By young and jovial, wise and brave, Such mummers are derided. His sacred rites shall Bacchus have, Unspared and undivided. Coucht by my friends, I fear no mask Impending from above, I only fear the latter flask That holds me from my love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPISTLE TO WILLIAM SIMPSON OF OCHILTREE by ROBERT BURNS TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON by JOHN CLEVELAND THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON CAMPS OF GREEN by WALT WHITMAN TO A SKYLARK (1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |