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Let it of filver fashion'd be,
Worthy of wine, worthy of me,
Worthy to adorn the spheres,

As that bright cup amongst the stars.
Fill me a bowl, a mighty bowl,
Large as my capacious foul.

SONG XXXIX.

YOU know that our ancient philofophers hold,

You know that our ancient

There is nothing in beauty, or honour, or gold;

That blifs in externals no mortal can find,

And in truth, my good friends, I am quite of their mind.

What makes a man happy, I never can doubt,

'Tis fomething within him, and nothing without; This fomething, they faid, was the fource of content, And, whatever they call'd it, 'twas wine that they meant.

Without us, indeed, it is not worth a pin ; But, ye gods! how divine if we get it within; "Tis then of all bleffings the flourishing root,

And, in spite of the world, we can gather the fruit.

When the bottle is wanting the foul is depreft,
And beauty can kindle no flame in the breaft;
But with wine in our hearts we are always in love,
We can fing like the linnet, and bill like the dove.

The

The richest and greatest are poor and repine,

If with gold and with grandeur you give them no wine; But wine to the peafant or flave if you bring,

He's as rich as a Jew, and as great as a king.

With wine at my heart, I am happy and free,
Externals without it are nothing to me;

Come fill, and this truth from a bumper you'll know,
That wine is, of bleffings, the bleffing below.

L'

SONG XL.

IN PRAISE OF WINE.

BY BEN JONSON?

ET foldiers fight for pay and praise,
And money be the misers wish;
Poor scholars ftudy all their days,
And gluttons glory in their dish:
'Tis wine, pure wine revives fad fouls,
Therefor give me the chearing bowls.

Let minions marshal in their hair,
And in a lovers lock delight,

And artificial colours wear;

We have the native red and white. 'Tis wine, &c.

Your pheafant pout, and culver falmon,
And how to please your palates think;
Give us a falt Weftphalia gammon,
Not meat to eat, but meat to drink.
'Tis wine, &c.

It makes the backward spirits brave,
That lively that before was dull;

Thofe

grow good fellows that are grave, And kindness flows from cups brim-full. 'Tis wine, &c.

Some have the tific, fome the rheum,
Some have the palfy, fome the gout;
Some fwell with fat, and fome confume,
But they are found that drink all out.
Tis wine, &c.

Some men want youth, and fome want health,
Some want a wife, and fome a punk,
Some men want wit, and some want wealth;
But he wants nothing that is drunk.

'Tis wine, pure wine revives fad fouts,
Therefore give me the chearing bowls.

SONG XLI.

A BACCHANALIAN RANT.

BY MR. HENRY CAREY.

ACCHUS muft now his power refign,

B I am the only god of wine;

It is not fit the wretch fhould be

In competition fet with me,

Who can drink ten times more than he.

Make a new world, ye powers divine!
Stock'd with nothing else but wine;
Let wine its only product be,
Let wine be earth, and air, and fea,
And let that wine be all for me.

Le

Let other mortals vainly wear

A tedious life in anxious care;
Let the ambitious toil and think,
Let ftates and empires fwim ar fink,
My fole ambition is to drink.

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SONG XLII.

Am the king and prince of drinkers,'
Ranting, rattling, jovial boys:

We defpife your fullen thinkers,

And fill the tavern with our' noife.
We fing and we roar,

And we drink and call for more, And make more noise than twenty can; 'Tis therefore all we swear,

That the man who knows no care,

He only deferves the name of a man.]

My friend and I we drank whole pifspots
Full of fack up to the brim :

I drank to my friend, and he drank his pot,
So we put about the whim:

Three bottles and a quart,

We swallow'd down our throat, But hang fuch puny fips as these; We laid us all along,

With our mouths unto the bung,

And tipp'd whole hogfheads off with ease,

I heard of a fop that drank whole tankards,
Stil'd himself the prince of fots:

But I fay now hang fuch filly drunkards,
Melt their flaggons, break their pots.

My

My friend and I did join

For a cellar full of wine,

And we drank the vintner out of door;
We drank it all up,

In the morning, at a fup,

And greedily rov'd about for more.

My friend to me did make this motion,
Let us to the vintage skip:
Then we embark'd upon the ocean,
Where we found a Spanish ship,
Deep laden with wine,

Which was fuperfine,

The failors fwore five hundred tun;

We drank it all at fea,

Ere we came unto the key,

And the merchant fwore he was quite undone.

My friend, not having quench'd his thirst,
Said, let us to the vineyards hafte:
Straight then we fail'd to the Canaries,
Which afforded just a taste;

From thence unto the Rhine,
Where we drank up all the wine,
'Till Bacchus cried, Hold, ye fots, or ye die;
And swore he never found,

In his univerfal round,

Such thirsty fouls as my friend and I.

Out, fie! cries one, what a beaft he makes him!

He can neither stand nor go.

Qut, you beast you, you're much mistaken,
Whene'er knew you a beast drink fo?

"Tis

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