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HO! pox o'this nonsense, I prithee give o'er,
And talk

Phillis and Chloe no more ;
Their face, and their air, and their mien-what a rout! .
Here's to thee, my lad !--push the bottle about.


Let finical fops play the fool and the ape;
They dare not confide in the juice of the grape :
But we honeft fellows-'[death! who'd ever think
Of puling for love, while he's able to drink.

'Tis wine, only wine, that true pleasure bestows;
Our joys it increases, and lightens out woes ;
Remember what topers of old us'd to fing,
The man that is drunk is as great as a king,



If Cupid assaults you, there's law for his tricks ;
Anacreons cafes, see page twenty-fix :
The precedent's glorious, and just by my foul 1;
Lay hold on, and drown the young dog in a bowl.

What's life but a frolic, a fong, and a laugh?
My toast shall be this, whilft I've liquor to quaff,
May mirth and good fellowship always abound:
Boys, fill up a bumper, and let it go round.

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ETTER our heads than hearts should ake,

Loves childish empire we despise ;
Good wine of him a slave can make,

And force a lover to be wise.

Wine sweetens all the cares of peace,

And takes the terror off from war ; To loves affli&ion it gives eafe,

And to our joys does beft prepare,

Better, our heads than hearts should ake,

Loves childish empire we despise; Good wine of him a slave can make,

And force a lover to be wise.



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OME fay women are like the seas,
Some the waves,

and some the rocks ;
Some the rose that foon decays ;

Some the weather, and some the cocks:
But if you'll give me leave to tell,

There's nothing can be compar'd so well,
As wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.

Women are witches, when they will,

So is wine, fo is wine;
They make the statesman lose his skill,

The soldier, lawyer, and divine;
They put a gig in the graveít skull,

And send their wits to gather wool:
'Tis wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.

What is't that makes your visage so pale ?

What is't that makes your looks divine ?
What is't that makes your courage to fail ?

Is it not women ? Is it not wine ?
'Tis wine will make you fick when you're well;

'Tis women that make your forehead to swell :
'Tis wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.


HE women all tell me I'm false to my lass,

That I quit my poor Chloe, and stick to my glass ;
But to you men of reason, my reasons I'll own;
And if you don't like them, why-let them alone.
B 2


Although I have left her, the truth I'll declare ;
I believe she was good, and I'm sure she was fair ;
But goodness and charms in a bumper I see,
That make it as good and as charming as the.

My Chloe had dimples and smiles, I must own;
But, though she could smile, yet in truth she could frown :
But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine,

you e'er see a frown in a bumper of wine ?

Her lilies and roses were just in their prime ;
Yet lilies and roses are conquer'd by time :
But in wine, from its age such a benefit flows,
That we like it the better the older it grows.

They tell me my love would in time have been cloy'd,
And that beauty's infipid when once 'tis enjoy'd;
But in wine I both time and enjoyment defy ;
For the longer I drink, the more thisfty am I.

Let murders, and battles, and history prove
The mischiefs that wait upon rivals in love ;
But in drinking, thank heaven, no rival contends,
For the more we love liquor, the more we are friends,

She too might have poison'd the joy of my life,
With nurses and babies, and squalling, and frife ;
But my wine neither nurses nor babies can bring ;
And a big-bellied bottle's a mighty good thing.

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We shorten our days when with love we engage,
It brings on diseases and haftens old age ;
But wine from grim death can its votaries save,
And keep out t'other leg, when there's one in the grave.

Perhaps, like her sex, ever false to their word,
She had left me to get an estate, or a lord ;
But my bumper (regarding nor title nor pelf)
Will stand by me when I can't stand by myself.


Then let my dear Chloe no longer complain ;
She's rid of her lover, and I of my pain ;
For in wine, mighty wine, many comforts I spy;
Should you doubt what I say, take a bumper and try.


HE tells me with claret she cannot agree,

S'And the thinks of a thog head where are the fes me ;

For I smell like a beast, and therefor must I,
Resolve to forsake her, or claret deny.
Must I leave my dear bottle, that was always my friend,
And I hope will continue fo to my lifes end ?
Must I leave it for her ? 'tis a very hard takk :
Let her go to the devil !-- bring the other full Aask.

Had the tax'd me with gaming, and bid me forbear,
'Tis a thousand to one I had lent her an ear :
Had the found out my Sally, up three pair of stairs,
I had balk'd her and gone to St. Jameses to prayers.

B 3


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