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[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, And fancied a cup of the best

Made reason the brighter to shine ;
With wine he replenish'd his veins,

And made his philosophy reel ;
Then fancied the world like his brains,

Run round like a chariot wheel.

(Theophrastus, that eloquent sage,

By Athens so greatly ador'd, With a bottle would boldly engage,

When mellow, was brisk as a bird ;
Would chat, tell a story, and jest,

Most pleasantly over a glass,
And thought a dumb guest at a feast,

But a dull philosophical ass.]

[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,

And drank to a pitch of disdain,
Or the strength of his wisdom, alas !

I fear would have flinch'd at the pain.]

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 ; But had it not been for good wine,

His merits we never had known. By wine we are generous made,

It furnishes fancy with wings; Without it we ne'er should have had

Philosophers, poets, or kings.

SONG XXXIII,

BY MR. HENRY CAREY. *

Zeno, Plato, Aristotle,
All were lovers of the bottle ;
Poets, painters, and musicians,
Churchmen, lawyers, and physicians,

All admire a pretty lass,
All require a cheerful glass :
Ev'ry pleasure has its season,
Love and drinking are no treason,

SONG XXXIV.

FROM MILTON.†

Now Phoebus sinketh in the west,
Welcome song, and welcome jest,
Midnight shout and revelry,
Tipsy dance and jollity;
Braid
your

locks with rosy twine,
Dropping odours, dropping wine.

Rigour now is gone to bed,
And advice with scrup'lous head,
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
We can see how minutes pass;
By the hollow cask are told,
How the waning night grows old.

Soon, too soon, the busy day
Drives us from our sport and play.
What have we with day to do?
Sons of care ! 'twas made for you.

SONG XXXVI.

BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.fi

This bottle's the sun of our table,
His beams are rosy

wine

; We-planets that are not able

Without his help to shine,

Let mirth and glee abound !

You'll soon grow bright

With borrow'd light,
And shine as he goes round.

* In the masque of' Comus.'
# In the comic opera of the ' Duenna.'

1

SONG XXXVII.

From Anacreon.

BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

VULCAN, contrive me such a cup

As Nestor us'd of old ;
Show all thy skill to trim it up,

Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large, that, fillid with sack

Up to the swelling brim,
Vast toasts in the delicious lake,

Like ships at sea, may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek,

With war I've nought to do ; I'm none of those that took Maestrick,

Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

Let it no name of planets tell,

Fix'd stars or constellations; For I am no Sir Sydrophel,

Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine,

Then add two lovely boys ; Their limbs in am'rous folds entwine,

The type of future joys.

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