As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then--
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.

For death may come with brow unpleasant--
May come when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us--drink no more!"

This profane song was sung in a voice so clear and melodious, that
Tithonus exclaimed, "You err, O Plato, in saying the tuneful soul of
Marsyas has passed into the nightingale; for surely it remains with this
young Athenian. Son of Clinias, you must be well skilled in playing upon
the flute the divine airs of Mysian Olympus?"

"Not I, so help me Dionysus!" lisped Alcibiades. "My music master will
tell you that I ever went to my pipes reluctantly. I make ten sacrifices
to equestrian Poseidon, where I offer one gift to the Parnassian
chorus."

"Stranger, thou hast not yet learned the fashions of Athens," said
Anaxagoras, gravely. "Our young equestrians now busy themselves with
carved chariots, and Persian mantles of the newest mode. They vie with
each other in costly wines; train doves to shower luxuriant perfumes
from their wings; and upon the issue of a contest between fighting
quails, they stake sums large enough to endow a princess. To play upon
the silver-voiced flute is Theban-like and vulgar. They leave that to
their slaves."

"And why not leave laughter to the slaves?" asked Hermippus; "since