PHO! pox o'this nonsense, I prithee give o'er,
And talk of your Phyllis and Chloe no more;
Their face, and their air, and their mien-what a rout!
Here's to thee, my lad !-push the bottle about.
Let finical fops play the fool and the ape;
They dare not confide in the juice of the grape :
But we honest fellows-'sdeath! who'd ever think
Of puling for love, while he's able to drink.
"Tis wine, only wine, that true pleasure bestows;
Our joys it increases, and lightens our woes;
Remember what topers of old us'd to sing,
The man that is drunk is as great as a king.'
If Cupid assaults you, there's law for his tricks ;
Anacreon's cases, see page twenty-six :
The precedent's glorious, and just, by my soul;
Lay hold on, and drown the young dog, in a bowl.
What's life but a frolic, a song, and a laugh?
My toast shall be this, whilst I've liquor to quaff,
May mirth and good fellowship always abound.
Boys, fill up a bumper, and let it go round.
BETTER Our heads than hearts should ake,
Love's childish empire we despise ;
Good wine of him a slave can make,
And force a lover to be wise.
Wine sweetens all the cares of peace,
And takes the terror off from war;
To love's affliction it gives ease,
And to our joys does best prepare.
Better our heads than hearts should ake,
Love's childish empire we despise ;
Good wine of him a slave can make,
And force a lover to be wise.
SOME say women are like the seas,
Some the waves, and some the rocks ;
Some the rose that soon decays ;
Some the weather, and some the cocks :
But if you'll give me leave to tell,
There's nothing can be compar'd so well,
As wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.
Women are witches, when they will,
So is wine, so is wine;
They make the statesman lose his skill,
The soldier, lawyer, and divine;
They put a gig in the gravest skull,
And send their wits to gather wool:
'Tis wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.
What is't that makes your visage so pale?
What is't that makes your looks divine ?
What is't that makes your courage to fail?
Is it not women? Is it not wine?
'Tis wine will make you sick when you're well; 'Tis women that make your forehead to swell: 'Tis wine, wine, women and wine, they run in a parallel.
THE Women all tell me I'm false to my lass,
That I quit my poor Chloe, and stick to my glass;
But to you men of reason, my reasons I'll own;
And if you don't like them, why-let them alone.
Although I have left her, the truth I'll declare,
I believe she was good, and I'm sure she was fair
But goodness and charms in a bumper I see,
That make it as good and as charming as she.
My Chloe had dimples and smiles, I must own;
But, though she could smile, yet in truth she could frown: But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine,
Did you e'er see a frown in a bumper of wine?
Her lilies and roses were just in their prime;
Yet lilies and roses are conquer'd by time :
But in wine, from its age such a benefit flows,
That we like it the better the older it grows.
They tell me, my love would in time have been cloy'd,
And that beauty's insipid when once 'tis enjoy'd;
But in wine I both time and enjoyment defy;
For the longer I drink, the more thirsty am I.
Let murders, and battles, and history prove
The mischiefs that wait upon rivals in love;
But in drinking, thank heaven, no rival contends,
For the more we love liquor, the more we are friends.
She too might have poison'd the joy of my life,
With nurses and babies, and squalling and strife :
But my wine neither nurses nor babies can bring;
And a big-bellied bottle's a mighty good thing.
We shorten our days when with love we engage,
It brings on diseases and hastens old age;
But wine from grim death can its votaries save,
And keep out t' other leg, when there's one in the grave.
Perhaps, like her sex, ever false to their word,
She had left me to get an estate, or a lord;
But my bumper (regarding nor title nor pelf)
Will stand by me when I can't stand by myself.
Then let my dear Chloe no longer complain;
She's rid of her lover, and I of my pain :
For in wine, mighty wine, many comforts I spy;
Should you doubt what I say, take a bumper and try.
SHE tells me with claret she cannot agree,
And she thinks of a hogshead whene'er she sees me;
For I smell like a beast, and therefore must I,
Resolve to forsake her, or claret deny.
Must I leave my dear bottle, that was always my friend,
And I hope will continue so, to my life's end?
Must I leave it for her? 'tis a very hard task:
Let her go to the devil !—bring the other full flask.
Had she tax'd me with gaming, and bid me forbear, 'Tis a thousand to one I had lent her an ear:
* Honest Tom's title to this song is rather questionable. In one of his plays he has a song beginning,
"When I visit proud Celia just come from the glass,' which is so near the present, as to make one thing certain while it leaves it doubtful, i. e. either that the present copy was borrowed from Tom, or that Tom borrowed from it. [Ritson seems by this note to have pre-supposed that he had ascribed this song to D'Urfey.]
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