Boys and girls, be blithe as air!
Every sorry thought forswear!
Keep perpetual holiday.---
Youths and maids, enjoy to-day;
Nought ye know about to-morrow.

Ladies and gay lovers young!
Long live Bacchus, live Desire!
Dance and play; let songs be sung;
Let sweet love your bosoms fire;
In the future come what may!---
Youths and maids, enjoy to-day!
Nought ye know about to-morrow.

Fair is youth and void of sorrow;
But it hourly flies away.

The next, composed by Antonio Alamanni, after Lorenzo's death and the
ominous passage of Charles VIII., was sung by masquers habited as
skeletons. The car they rode on, was a Car of Death designed by Piero
di Cosimo, and their music was purposely gloomy. If in the jovial days
of the Medici the streets of Florence had rung to the thoughtless
refrain, 'Nought ye know about to-morrow,' they now re-echoed with a
cry of 'Penitence;' for times had strangely altered, and the heedless
past had brought forth a doleful present. The last stanza of
Alamanni's chorus is a somewhat clumsy attempt to adapt the too real
moral of his subject to the customary mood of the Carnival.

Sorrow, tears, and penitence
Are our doom of pain for aye;
This dead concourse riding by
Hath no cry but penitence!

E'en as you are, once were we:
You shall be as now we are:
We are dead men, as you see:
We shall see you dead men, where
Nought avails to take great care,
After sins, of penitence.

We too in the Carnival
Sang our love-songs through the town;
Thus from sin to sin we all
Headlong, heedless, tumbled down:--
Now we cry, the world around,
Penitence! oh, Penitence!

Senseless, blind, and stubborn fools!
Time steals all things as he rides:
Honours, glories, states, and schools,
Pass away, and nought abides;
Till the tomb our carcase hides,
And compels this penitence.

This sharp scythe you see us bear,
Brings the world at length to woe:
But from life to life we fare;
And that life is joy or woe:
All heaven's bliss on him doth flow
Who on earth does penitence.

Living here, we all must die;
Dying, every soul shall live:
For the King of kings on high
This fixed ordinance doth give:
Lo, you all are fugitive!
Penitence! Cry Penitence!

Torment great and grievous dole
Hath the thankless heart mid you;
But the man of piteous soul
Finds much honour in our crew:
Love for lovi