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Let it of silver fathion'd be,
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,
Without us, indeed, it is not worth a pin ;
When the bottle is wanting the foul is deprest,
The riches and greatet are poor and repine,
With wine at my heart, I am happy and free,
IN PRAISE OF WINE.
BY BEN JONSON?
And money be the misers with;
And gluttons glory in their d th:
Let minions marbal in their bair,
And in a lovers lock delight,
We have the native red and white.
Your pheasant pout, and culver salmon,
And how to please your palates think;
Not meat to eat, but meat to drink.
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,
But he wants nothing that is drunk.
A BACCHANALIAN RANT.
BY MR. HENRY CAREY.
I am the only god of wine;
Make a new world, ye powers divine!
SON G XLII.
Ranting, rattling, jovial boys :
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 :
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,
Stil'd himself the prince of fots:
Melt their flaggons, break their pots.
My friend and I did join
For a cellar full of wine,
We drank it all up,
In the morning, at a sup, 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 Where we found a Spanish ship,
Deep laden with wine,
Which was superfine,
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,
Out, fie! cries one, what a bealt he makes him !
He can neither stand nor go.
Whene'er knew you a beast drink fo?