'Tis when we drink the leaft,

That we drink most like a beaft; But when we caroufe 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.

HE man that is drunk is void of all care,

THE

He needs neither Parthian quiver nor fpear:
The Moors poifon'd dart he scorns for to wield;
His bottle 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 fkin full of wine,
Incumbered neither with care nor with coin,
I boldly confronted a horrible dun,
Affrighted, as foon as he faw me, he run.

No monster could put you in half so much fear,
Should he in Apulias foreft appear;

In Africas defart there never was feen
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 funfhine 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 fhould warm me, and fill me with fire.

My tutor may Job me, and lay me down rules;
Who minds them but dull philofophical 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 Ariftotle an afs for his pain;
His forrows 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 flor'd,
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 I'll stagger away.

SONG XLIV.

FROM AURELIUS AUGURELLUS.]

G

BY DR. PARNEL L.

AY Bacchus, liking Eftcourts 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 feaft.

The more to please the fpritely god,
Each sweet engaging grace
Put on fome clothes to come abroad,
And took a waiters place.

Then Cupid nam'd at every glafs

A lady of the sky,

While Bacchus fwore he'd drink the lafs,
And had it bumper high.

Fat Comus tofs'd his brimmer o'er,
And always got the most;
Jocus took care to fill him more,
Whene'er he mifs'd the toast.

They call'd, and drank at every touch,
Then fill'd and drank again;
And if the gods can take too much
'Tis faid, they did fo then.

Free jets run all the table round,
And with the wine conspire
(While they by fly reflection wound)
To fet 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 ftagg'ring gaits.

2

And

And Jocus droll'd on Comus' ways,

And tales without a jeft;

While Comus call'd his witty plays
But waggeries at best.

Such talk foon fet 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 foon agree;
And had the Furies felves been nigh,
They ftill were three to three.

Bacchus appeas'd, rais'd Cupid up,
And gave him back his bow;
But kept fome dart to ftir the
Where fack and fugar flow.

cup,

Jocus took Comus' rofy crown,

And gayly wore the prize,

And thrice, in mirth, he push'd him down,
As thrice he ftrove to rife.

Then Cupid fought the myrtle grove,

Where Venus did recline,
And beauty clofe 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 state.

E

Bacchus

Bacchus and Jocus ftill behind,

For one fresh glass prepare;

They kifs, and are exceeding kind,
And vow to be fincere.

But part in time, whoever hear
This our inftructive fong;
For though fuch friendships may be dear,
They can't continue long.

To chase the spleen with cup and can

Duke Philip took his way,

Babes yet unborn fhall never fee

The like of fuch a day.

MILTON.

The