The Stirrup-Cup
Death, thou ’rt a cordial old and rare:
Look how compounded, with what care
Time got his wrinkles reaping thee
Sweet herbs from all antiquity.
David to thy distillage went,
Keats, and Gotama excellent,
Omar Khayyám, and Chaucer bright,
And Shakespeare for a king-delight.
Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt:
Hand me the cup whene’er thou wilt;
’T is thy rich stirrup-cup to me;
I ’ll drink it down right smilingly.