« ZurückWeiter »
Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,
May drink and love still reign;
And then to love again.
BY MR. OLDHAM,
Fill me a bowl, a mighty bowl,
Let it of silver fashion'd be,
* This is part of a long poem. [No poem that Oldham wrote has conferred on him so much honour as the elegiac tribute of Dryden, in which he says
Our souls were near allied, and thine
You know that our ancient philosophers hold,
What makes a man happy, I never can doubt,
Without us, indeed, it is not worth a pin ;
When the bottle is wanting the soul is deprest,
The richest and greatest are poor and repine,
With wine at my heart, I am happy and free,
IN PRAISE OF WINE.
BY BEN JONSON ?*
Let soldiers fight for pay and praise,
And money be the miser's wish;
And gluttons glory in their dish :
Let minions marshal in their hair,
And in a lover's lock delight,
We have the native red and white.
Your pheasant pout, and culver salmon,
And how to please your palates think;
Not meat to eat, but meat to drink.
* This is not found in Jonsov's works; and D'Urfey, who fur. nished the name, might possibly mean Ben Johnson the player, his own cotemporary. But, whoever was the author, the song was certainly written before the Restoration. [A miscellany of poems assuming to be hy Ben Jonson, jun. appeared in 1672, and the above might probably have been extracted from tliat collection.]
It makes the backward spirits brave,
That lively that before was dull; Those grow good fellows that are grave, And kindness flows from
brim-full. 'Tis wine, &c.
Some have the phthisic, some the rheum,
Some have the palsy, some the gout ; Some swell with fat, and some consume,
But they are sound that drink all out. 'Tis wine, &c.
Some men want youth, and some want health,
Some want a wife, and some a punk, Some men want wit, and some want wealth;
But he wants nothing that is drunk. 'Tis wine, pure wine, revives sad souls, Therefore give me the cheering bowls.
A BACCHANALIAN RANT.
BY MR. HENRY CAREY.
Bacchus must now his power resign,
Make a new world, ye powers divine !
Let other mortals vainly wear
[I am the king and prince of drinkers,'
Ranting, rattling, jovial boys :
We sing and we roar,
And we drink and call for more, And make more noise than twenty can;
'Tis therefore all we swear,
That the man who knows no care, He only deserves the name of a man.]
My friend and I we drank whole p-pots
Full of sack up to the brim :
Three bottles and a quart,