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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 ;
And made his philosophy reel ;
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 ;
Most pleasantly over a glass,
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,
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.
BY MR. HENRY CAREY. *
Zeno, Plato, Aristotle,
All admire a pretty lass,
Now Phoebus sinketh in the west,
locks with rosy twine,
Rigour now is gone to bed,
In the burlesque opera of the · Dragon of Wantley.' + In the masque of Comus.'
BY DR. DALTON.*
By the gaily circling glass
Soon, too soon, the busy day
BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.fi
This bottle's the sun of our table,
; 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,
* In the masque of' Comus.'
BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.
VULCAN, contrive me such a cup
As Nestor us'd of old ;
Damask it round with gold.
Make it so large, that, fillid with sack
Up to the swelling brim,
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.