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We are dry where we ſit, tho' the oozing drops ſeem,
the moiſt walls with wet pearls to emboſe,
From the arch mouldy cob webs in gothic taſte ſtream,
like ſtucco-work cut out of moſs.
Aſtride on a butt, as a butt ſhould be ſtrode,
I ſit my companions among,
Like grape bleſſing Bacchus, the good fellow's god,
and a ſentiment give, or a ſong.
I charge ſpoil in hand, and my empire maintain,
view that heap of old hock in the rear;
Yon bottles of Burgundy, ſee how they're pil'd,
like artillery tier over tier.
My cellar's my camp, and my ſoldiers my flaſks,
all gloriouſly rang'd in review;
When I caſt my eyes round, I conſider my caſks,
as kingdoms I've yet to ſubdue.
Like Macedon's madman, my drink I'll enjoy,
in defiance of gravel and gout,
Who cry'd, when he had no mere worlds to ſubdue,
I'll weep when my liquor is out.
When the lamp is brimful, ſee the flame brightly ſhines
but when wanting moiſture decays;
Repleniſh the lamps of my life with red wine,
or elſe there's an end of my blaze.
'Tis my will when I die, not a tear ſhould be ſhed,
no Hic Jacet be cut on my ſtone;
But pour on my coffin a bottle of red,
and ſay, A choice ſpirit is gone, my brave boys,
and ſay, A choice ſpirit is gone.
The Return of the SPRING.
MY muſes, don't fail, to the ſpring give all hail,
'tis the pleaſanteſt time of the year:
When the ſun doth accoſt, ſnow mountains & froſt,
make their hoary heads to diſappear.
