XLIX
        
Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
         Why should men make haste to die?
Empty heads and tongues a-talking
Make the rough road easy walking,
And the feather pate of folly
         Bears the falling sky.
        
Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking
         Spins the heavy world around.
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever:
Think no more; 'tis only thinking
         Lays lads underground.