[Pythag'ras did silence enjoin On his pupils, who wisdom would seek, Because that he tippled good wine, Till himself was unable to speak : And when he was whimsical grown, With sipping his plentiful bowls, By the strength of the juice in his crown, He conceiv'd transmigration of souls.] Copernicus, like to the rest, Believ'd there was wisdom in wine, Made reason the brighter to shine; [Theophrastus, that eloquent sage, [Anaxarchus, more patient than Job, By pestles was pounded to death, Yet scorn'd that a groan or a sob Should waste the remains of his breath : But sure he was free with the glass, Aristotle, that master of arts, Had been but a dunce without wine, And what we ascribe to his parts, Is due to the juice of the vine : His belly, most writers agree, Was as large as a watering-trough; He therefore jump'd into the sea, Because he'd have liquor enough. [When Pyrrho had taken a glass, He saw that no object appear'd Exactly the same as it was Before he had liquor'd his beard : For things running round in his drink, Which sober he motionless found, Occasion'd the sceptic to think There was nothing of truth to be found.] Old Plato was reckon'd divine, He wisely to virtue was prone ; SONG XXXIII. BY MR. HENRY CAREY.* ZENO, Plato, Aristotle, All were lovers of the bottle; All require a cheerful glass : Love and drinking are no treason. SONG XXXIV. FROM MILTON.† Now Phoebus sinketh in the west, Braid your locks with rosy twine, Rigour now is gone to bed, Strict age, and sour severity, With their grave saws in slumber lie. * In the burlesque opera of the Dragon of Wantley.' + In the masque of 'Comus.' SONG XXXV. BY DR. DALTON.* By the gaily circling glass Soon, too soon, the busy day SONG XXXVI. BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. THIS bottle's the sun of our table, Let mirth and glee abound! * In the masque of 'Comus.' In the comic opera of the Duenna.' SONG XXXVII. From Anacreon. BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER. VULCAN, contrive me such a cup Make it so large, that, fill'd with sack Vast toasts in the delicious lake, Engrave not battle on his cheek, Let it no name of planets tell, Fix'd stars or constellations; For I am no Sir Sydrophel, But carve thereon a spreading vine, Their limbs in am'rous folds entwine, |