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Let it of silver fathion'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.

Y

TOU know that our ancient philosophers hold,

There is nothing in beauty, or honour, or gold; That bliss 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 something within him, and nothing without;
This fomething, they said, was the source 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 blessings the flourishing root,
And, in spite of the world, we can gather the fruit.

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

The

The riches and greatet are poor and repine,
If with gold and with grandeur you give them no wine;
But wine to the peasant 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 bleflings, the blessing below.

SONG XL.

IN PRAISE OF WINE.

BY BEN JONSON?
ET fridiers figbt for pay and praise,

And money be the misers with;
Peor fchclars tłudy all their days,

And gluttons glory in their d th:
'Tis wine, pure wine revives fad fouls,
Therefor give me the chearing bowls.

L

Let minions marbal in their bair,

And in a lovers lock delight,
Acd artificial colours wear;

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

Your pheasant pout, and culver salmon,

And how to please your palates think;
Give us a falt Westphalia gammon,

Not meat to eat, but meat to drink.
'Tis wine, &c.

It makes the backward spirits brave, ,

That lively that before was dull; Those 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 palsy, some the gout; Some swell with fat, and some confume,

But they are found that drink all out. Tis wine, &c.

Some men want youth, and some want health,

Some want a wife, and some 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 must now his power resign,

I am the only god of wine;
It is not fit the wretch should be
In competition set with me,
Who can drink ten times more than he.

B В

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

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SON G XLII.
Am the king and prince of drinkers,'

Ranting, rattling, jovial boys :
We despise your fullen thinkers,
And fill the tavern with our noise,

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 deserves the name of a man.)

My friend and I we drank whole pisspots

Full of sack 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 such puny fips as these;

We laid us all along,

With our mouths unto the bung,
And tipp'd whole hogsheads off with ease,
I heard of a fop that drank whole tankards,

Stil'd himself the prince of fots:
But I say now hang such 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 sup, And greedily rov'd about for more.

the ocean,

My friend to me did make this motion,

Let us to the vintage skip : Then we embark'd

upon Where we found a Spanish ship,

Deep laden with wine,

Which was superfine,
The sailors swore five hundred tun ;'

We drank it all at sea,

Ere we came unto the key, And the merchant (wore 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 universal round,
Such thirsty souls as my friend and I.

Out, fie! cries one, what a bealt 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?

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