The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest, And blended lie th' oppressor and th' oppressed!
Wit and judgment often are at strife.
Wine lets no lover unrewarded go.
The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
The lot of man - to suffer and to die.
Oh! be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure-and a friend.