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[ old Seneca, fam'd for his parts,
Who tutor'd the bully of Rome, Grew wise o'er his cups and his quarts
Which he drank like a miser at home :
To the laft, we may truly aver it,
So faneied he died in his claret. ]
On his pupils, who wisdom would seek, Because that he tippled good wine,
Till himself was unable to speak:
With fipping his plentiful bowls,
He conceiv'd transmigration of souls. ]
Believ'd there was wisdom in wine, And fancied a cup of the best
Made reason the brighter to shine ; With wine he replenih'd his veins,
And made his philosophy reel ; Then fancied the world like his brains,
Run round like a chariot wheel. (Theophrastus, that eloquent fage,
By Athens so greatly ador'd, With a bottle would boldly engage,
When mellow, was brisk as a bird ;
Most pleasantly over a glass,
[ Anaxarchus, more patient than Job,
By peftles was pounded to death, Yet scorn'd that a groan or a sob
Should waste the remains of his breath : But sure he was free with the glass,
And drank to a pitch of disdain, Or the strength of bis wisdom, alas !
I fear would have flinch'd at the pain. ] Aristotle, that master of arts,
Had been but a dunce without wine, And what we ascribe to his parts,
Is due to the juice of the vine: His belly, most writers agree,
Was as large as a watering trough ; He therefore jump'd into the sea,
Because he'd have liquor enough. [ When Pyrrho had taken a glass,
He saw that no object appear’d, Exactly the same as it was
Before he had liquor'd his beard : For things running round in his drink.
Which sober he motionless found, Occasion'd the keptic to think
There was nothing of truth to be found. } Old Plato was reckon'd divine,
He wisely to virtue was prone; But had it not been for good wine,
His merits we never had known. By wine we are generous made,
It furnishes fancy with wings, Without it we ne'er should have had Philosophers, poets, or kings.
BY MR. HENRY CAREY, .
ZENO, Plato, Ariftotle,
ENO, Plato, Aristotle,
All were lovers of the bottle ;
All admire a pretty lass,
FROM MILTON. +
NWelcome tonig, kand welcome jeit,
OW Phebus finketh in the west,
Rigour now is gone to bed,
* In the burlesque opera of the Dragon of Wantley.
+ In the Marque of Comus,
BY DR. DALTON. *
We can see how the minutes pass ;
SON G XXVI. BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN ESQ. + *HIS bottle's the sun of our table,
His beams are rosy wine ; We-- planets that are not able
Without his help to shine.
Let mirth and glee abound !
You'll soon grow bright
With borrow'd light, And shine as he
BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.
VULCAN, contrive me fach
* In ite Masque of Comus.
+ In the Duenna.
Make it so large, that, fill'd with fack
Up to the swelling brim, Vast toasts in the delicious lake,
Like ships at sea, may swim.
With war I've nought to do;
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.
Let it no name of planets tell,
Fix'd stars or constellations ; For I am no fir Sydrophel,
Nor none of his relations.
But carve thereon a spreading vine,
Then add two lovely boys ;
The type of future joys.