'Tis when we drink the lealt,

That we drink most like a beast; But when we carouse it fix in hand,

"Tis then, and only then,

That we drink the most like men,
When we drink till we can neither go nor stand.

SONG XLII.

TH

HE man that is drunk is void of all care,

He needs neither Parthian quiver nor spear: The Moors poison'd dart he scorns for to wield; His botile alone is his

weapon

and shield.

Undaunted he goes among bullies and whores,
Demolishes windows, and breaks open doors ;
He revels all night, is afraid of no evil,
And boldly defies both proctor and devil.
As late I rode out, with my skin full of wine,
Incumbered neither with care nor with coin,
I boldly confronted a horrible dun,
Affrighted, as soon as he saw me, he run.

No monster could put you in half so much fear,
Should he in Apulias forest appear;
In Africas desart there never was seen
A monster so hated by gods and by men.

Come place me, ye deities, under the line,
Where grows not a tree, nor a plant, but the vine ;
O'er hot burning fands I'll fwelter and sweat,
Barefooted, with nothing to keep off the heat.

Or

Or place me where sunshine is ne'er to be found,
Where the earth is with winter eternally bound;
Even there I would nought but my bottle require,
My bottle should warm me, and fill me with fire,

My tutor may Job me, and lay me down rules;
Who minds them but dull philosophical fools ?
For when I am old, and can no more drink,
'Tis time enough then for to fit down and think.

'Twas thus Alexander was tutor'd in vain,
For he thought Aristotle an ass for his pain ;
His sorrows he us'd in full bumpers to drown,
And when he was drunk, then the world was his own.

This world is a tavern, with liquor well ford,
And into't I came to be drunk as a lord :
My life is the reck’ning, which freely I'll pay ;
And when I'm dead drunk, then l'll stagger away.

SONG XLIV.

EF ROM AURELIUS AUGURELLUS.)

BY DR. PARNEL L.

GAY

AY Bacchus, liking Efcourts wine,

A noble meal bespoke us ; And for the guests that were to dine,

Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.

The

The god near Cupid drew his chair,

Near Comus Jocus plac'd;
Thus wine makes love forget its care,

And mirth exalts a feast.

The more to please the fpritely god,

Each sweet engaging grace
Put on some clothes to come abroad,

And took a waiters place.

Then Cupid nam'd at every glass

A lady of the sky,
While Bacchus swore he'd drink the 12:s,

And had it bumper high.

Fat Comus tossd his brimmer o'er,

And always got the mot; Jocus took care to fill him more,

Whene'er he miss’d the toaft.

They call'd, and drank at every touch,

Then fillid and drank again; And if the gods can take too much

'Tis said, they did so then. Free jets run all the table round,

And with the wine conspire
(While they by fly reflection wound)

To set their heads on fire.
Gay Bacchus little Cupid ftung,

By reck’ning his deceits ;
And Cupid mock'd his stamm'ring tongue,

With all his stagg'ring gaits.

And

2

And Jocus drolld on Comus' ways,

And tales without a jeft;
While Comus call'd his witty plays

But waggeries at best.

Such talk soon set them all at odds,

And had I Homers pen;
I'd fing ye, how they drank like gods,

And how they fought like men.
To part the fray, the Graces fly,

Who made them soon agree;
And had the Furies selves been nigh,

They still were three to three.

Bacchus appeas'd, rais'd Cupid up,
And
gave

him back his bow ;
But kept some dart to stir the cup,

Where fack and sugar flow.

Jocus took Comus' rosy crown,

And gayly wore the prize,
And thrice, in mirth, he path'd him down,

As thrice he trove to rise.

Then Cupid sought the myrtle grove,

Where Venus did recline,
And beauty close embracing love,

They join'd to rail at wine.

And Comus, loudly curfing wit,

Roll'd off to some retreat,
Where boon companions gravely fit
In fat unwieldy itate.

E

Bacchus

Bacchus and Jocus ftill behind,

For one fresh glass prepare ;
They kiss, and are exceeding kind,

And vow to be fincere.

But part in time, whoever hear

This our instructive song ;
For though such friendships may be dear,

They can't continue long.

SONG XLV.

A TRUE AND LAMENTABLE BALLAD;

CALLED

THE EARL S D E F E A T.

To the Tune of Chevy-Chase.

BY THE DUKE OF WHARTON.

MILTON.

On both fides Naughter and gigantick deeds.

OD prosper long from being broke

The Luck * of Eden-Hall, A doleful drinking-bout I fing,

There lately did befal.

Go

To chase the fpleen with cup and can

Duke Philip took his way, Babes yet unborn shall never see

The like of such a day.

* A pint bumper at fir Christopher Musgraves.

The