Come, friend, there's going to be a merry meeting
After the play. Our masks we'll throw aside,
And after chaff and chat and friendly greeting
Our glasses fill and all, like cronies tried,
Drink draughts whose richness was so devil-cheating.
The ancients drank until their flasks were dried,
Then lost the art of making more such wine;
And we'll on long-forgotten viands dine.

Who will be there ?' you ask. Why, you and I
And all good fellows who were never great;
No warrior there will roll commanding eye;
No statesman weary with affairs of weight;
No prosy sage to proselyte will try;
No bard will drone; no orator will prate;
To pine in pompous glory they have gone,
But we'll be merry in Oblivion.

The watchword of that banquet hall's 'Forgotten,'
And if forgotten, why, we will forget
Our foolish dreams, the mocking goals we sought in
The days when hope could lure and failure fret;
The weary days when all our souls were caught in
The snare of life that like a tangling net
Holds us in agony and durance till
The spoiler stretches forth his hand to kill.

Methinks that there, my friend, both you and I
Can fleet away eternity content;
No curious fool into our lives can pry
And moralize on how our days were spent;
And soon, how soon! the names that flare on high
Will wane and with the closing night be blent;
For while we revel in Oblivion
The great themselves must join us one by one.