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But hang such puny sips as these ;

We laid us all along,

With our mouths unto the bung, And tip'd whole hogsheads off with ease.

I heard of a fop that drank whole tankards,

Styl’d himself the prince of sots :
But I say now, hang such silly drunkards,
Melt their flaggons, break their pots.

My friend and I did join

For a cellar full of wine,
And we drank the vintner out of door ;

We drank it all up,

In the morning, at a sup,
And greedily rov'd about for more.

My friend to me did make this motion,

Let us to the vintage skip :
Then we embark'd upon the ocean,
Where we found a Spanish ship,

Deep laden with wine,

Which was superfine,
The sailors swore five hundred tun;

We drank it all at sea,

Ere we came unto the key, And the merchant swore he was quite undone.

My friend, not having quench'd his thirst,

Said, let us to the vineyards haste : Straight then we sail'd to the Canaries, Which afforded just a taste ;

From thence unto the Rhine,

Where we drank up all the wine, VOL. II.

'Till Bacchus cried, 'Hold, ye sots, or ye die;'

And swore he never found,

In his universal round,
Such thirsty souls as my friend and I.

Out, fie ! cries one, what a beast he makes him !

He can neither stand nor go.
Out, you beast you, you're much mistaken,
Whene'er knew you a beast drink so ?

'Tis when we drink the least,

That we drink most like a beast;
But when we carouse it six in hand,

'Tis then, and only then,

That we drink the most like men,
When we drink till we can neither go nor stand..

SONG XLIII.*

The man that is drunk is void of all care,
He needs neither Parthian quiver nor spear :
The Moors poison'd dart he scorns for to wield;
His bottle alone is his weapon and shield.

Undaunted he goes among bullies and whores,
Demolishes windows, and breaks open doors;
He revels all night, is afraid of no evil,
And boldly defies both proctor and devil.

As late I rode out, with my skin full of wine,
Incumbered neither with care nor with coin,

* This song is a parody of the twenty-second ode of the second book of Horace.

I boldly confronted a horrible dun,
Affrighted, as soon as he saw me, he run.

No monster could put you in half so much fear,
Should he in Apulia's forest appear ;
In Africa's desert there never was seen
A monster so hated by gods and by men.

Come place me, ye deities, under the line,
Where grows not a tree, nor a plant, but the vine ;
O'er hot burning sands I'll swelter and sweat,
Barefooted, with nothing to keep off the heat.

Or place me where sunshine is ne'er to be found,
Where the earth is with winter eternally bound;
Even there I would nought but my bottle require,
My bottle should warm me, and fill me with fire.

My tutor may Job me, and lay me down rules ;
Who minds them but dull philosophical fools ?
For when I am old, and can no more drink,
'Tis time enough then for to sit down and think.

'Twas thus Alexander was tutord in vain,
For he thought Aristotle an ass for his pain ;
His sorrows he us’d in full bumpers to drown,
And when he was drunk, then the world was his own.

This world is a tavern, with liquor well stor'd,
·And into't I came to be drunk as a lord :
My life is the reck’ning, which freely I'll pay;
And when I'm dead drunk, then I'll stagger away.

SONG XLIV.

(From Aurelius Augurellus.*)

BY DR. PARNELL,

Gay Bacchus, liking Estcourt's wine,

A noble meal bespoke us ;
And for the guests that were to dine,

Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.

The god near Cupid drew his chair,

Near Comus Jocus plac'd ;
Thus wine makes love forget its care,

And mirth exalts a feast.

The more to please the spritely god,

Each sweet engaging Grace
Put on some clothes to come abroad,

And took a waiter's place.

Then Cupid nam'd at every glass

A lady of the sky,
While Bacchus swore he'd drink the lass,

And had it bumper high.

Fat Comus toss'd his brimmer o'er,

And always got the most ;
Jocus took care to fill him more,

Whene'er he miss’d the toast. * [Augurellus was born at Rimini, and died at Trevisa, early in the sixteenth century, at the age of 83.]

They call’d, and drank at every touch,

Then fill’d and drank again ;
And if the gods can take too much,

'Tis said, they did so then.

· Free jests run all the table round,

And with the wine conspire (While they by sly reflection wound)

To set their heads on fire.

Gay Bacchus little Cupid stung,

By reck’ning his deceits ; And Cupid mock'd his stamm'ring tongue,

With all his staggʻring gaits.

And Jocus droll’d on Comus’ ways,

And tales without a jest ;
While Comus call'd his witty plays.

But waggeries at best.

Such talk soon set them all at odds,

And had I Homer's pen;
I'd sing ye, how they drank like gods,

And how they fought like men.

To part the fray, the Graces fly,

Who made them soon agree ;
And had the Furies selves been nigh,

They still were three to three.

Bacchus appeas'd, rais'd Cupid up,

And gave him back his bow; But kept some dart to stir the cup,

Where sack and sugar flow.

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