If Wine And Music Have The Power To Ease The Sickness Of The Soul, Let Phoebis Every String Explore, And Bacchus Fill The Sprightly Bowl: Let Them Their Friendly Aid Employ To Make My Cloe'S Absense Light, And Seek For Pleasure To Destroy The Sorrows Of This Live-Long Night. But She To-Morrow Will Return: Venus, Be Thou To-Morrow Great; Thy Myrtles Strow, Thy Odours Burn, And Meet Thy Favourite Nymph In State, Kind Goddess, To No Other Powers Let Us To-Morrow'S Blessings Own, Thy Darling Loves Shall Guide The Hours, And All The Day Be Thine Alone.