In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd,...
My feeble pulfe forgot to play,
I fainted, funk, and dy'd away.
SONG LXXII
You may ceafe to complain,
For fuit is in vains
your
All attempts you can make
But augments her disdain;
She bids you give over
While 'tis in your power,
For except her esteem
She can grant you no more: Her heart has been long fince Affaulted and won,
Her truth is as lafting
And firm as the fun;
You'll find it more easy
Your paffion to cure,
Than for ever those fruitlefs
Endeavours endure.
may ́tell her I'll be
Her true lover, tho' fhe
Should mankind despise
Out of hatred to me;
"Tis mean to give o'er,
'Cause we get no reward,
She loft not her worth
When I lost her regard ;
My love on an altar
More noble fhall burn,
I ftill will love on
Without hopes of return;
I'll tell her fome other
Has kindled the flame,
And I'll figh for herself
In another one's name.
The tippling Philofophers.
Diogenes furly and proud,
Who fnarl'd at the Macedon youth,
Delighted in wine that was good,
Because in good wine there was truth;
But growing as poor as a Job,
Unable to purchase a flask,
He chofe for his manfion a tub,
And liv'd by the fcent of the cask.
Heraclitus ne'er wou'd deny
A bumper, to cherish his heart;
And when he was maudlin wou'd cry,
Because he had empty'd his quart:
Tho' fome are fo foolish to think,
He wept at mens follies and vice,
'Twas only his custom to drink,
Till the liquor flow'd out of his eyes.
VOL. III.
* вь
Democritus always was glad
To tipple and cherish his foul;
Would laugh like a man that was mad,
When over a good flowing bowl;
As long as his cellar was stor'd,
The liquor he'd merrily quaff:
And when he was drunk as a lord,
At them that were fober he'd laugh.
Wife Solon, who carefully gave
Good laws unto Athens of old,
And thought the rich Crafus a flave
(Tho' a king) to his coffers of gold;
He delighted in plentiful bowls;
But drinking much talk would decline,
Becaufe 'twas the custom of fools,
To prattle much over their wine.
Old Socrates ne'er was content,
Till a bottle had heighten'd his joys,
Who in's cups to the oracle went,
Or he ne'er had been counted fo wife :
Late hours he most certainly lov'd,
Made wine the delight of his life,
Or Xantippe would never have prov'd
Such a damnable fcold of a wife.
Grave Seneca, fam'd for his parts,
Who tutor'd the bully of Rome,
Grew wife o'er his cups and his quarts,
Which he drank like a miser at home;
And, to fhew he lov'd wine that was good,
To the laft, (we may truly aver it),
He tinctur'd his bath with his blood,
So fancy'd he dy'd in his clarct,
Pythagoras did filence injoin,
On his pupils who wisdom would feek;
Becaufe he tippled good wine,
Till himself was unable to speak;
And when he was whimfical grown,
With fipping his plentiful bowls,
By the ftrength of the juice in his crown,
He conceiv'd tranfmigration of fouls.
Copernicus too, like the reft,
Believ'd there was wifdom in wine,
And thought that a cup of the best
Made reafon the brighter to fhine;
With wine he replenish'd his veins,
And made his philofophy reel;
Then fancy'd the world, like his brains,
Turn'd round like a chariot-wheel.
Ariftotle, that master of arts,
Had been but a dunce without wine;
And what we afcribe to his parts,
Is due to the juice of the vine:
His belly, moft writers agree,
Was big as a watering-trough;
He therefore leap'd into the fea,
Because he'd have liquor enough.
Old Plato was reckon'd divine,
He fondly to wifdom was prone;
But had it not been for good wine,
His merits had never been known.
By wine we are generous made,
It furnishes fancy with wings,
Without it we ne'er shou'd have had
Philofophers, poets, or kings.
SONG LXXIV.
Down among the dead men.
"Ere's a health to the king and a lafting peace;
Here's a to
Come, let us drink it while we have breath,
For there's no drinking after death ;
And he that won't with this comply,
Down among the dead men,
Down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down,
Down among the dead men, let him lie.
Now a health to the queen, and may the long
B' our first fair toaft to grace our fong;
Off wi' your hats, wi' your knee on the ground,
Take off your bumpers all around;
And he that will not drink his dry,
Down among, &c. let him lie.
Let charming beauty's health go round,
In whom celeftial joys are found;
And may confufion still pursue
The fenfelefs woman-hating crew;
And he that will this health deny,
-Down among, &c. let him lie.
Here's thriving to trade, and the commonweal,
And patriots to their country leal;
But who for bribes gives Satan his foul,
May he ne'er laugh o'er a flowing bowl;
And all that with fuch rogues comply,
Down among, &c. let them lie.
In fmiling Bacchus' joys I'll roll,
Deny no pleasure to my foul;
Let Bacchus health round swiftly move,
For Bacchus is a friend to love;
And he that does this health deny,
Down among, &c. let him lie.
SONG LXXV.
E that will not merry merry be,
With a generous bowl and a toaft,
May he in Brideswell be fhut
And faft bound to a post;
Let him be merry merry there,
And we'll be merry merry here;
For who can know where we shall go,
To be merry another year?
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