Let's not rime the hours away;
Friends! We must no longer play:
Brisk Lyaeus ( see ) invites
To more ravishing delights.
Let's give o're this Fool Apollo;
Nor his Fiddle longer follow:
Fye upon his forked Hill,
With his Fiddlestick and Quill;
And the Muses, though they're gamesome,
They are neither young nor handsome;
And their Freaks in sober sadnesse
Are a meer Poetick Madnesse:
Pegasus is but a Horse ,
He that follows him is worse.
See the Rain soaks to the skin,
Make it rain as well within.
Wine my Boy; Wee'l sing and laugh,
All night revel, rant, and quaffe;
Till the Morn stealing behind us
At the Table sleeplesse finde us.
When our Bones (alasse) shall have
A cold lodging in the Grave,
When swift Death shall overtake us,
We shall sleep and none can wake us.
Drink we then the juice o'th'Vine,
Make our breasts Lyaeus Shrine ;
Bacchus, our debauche beholding ,
By thy Image I am moulding,
Whilst my Brains I do replenish
With this draught of unmixt Rhenish;
By thy full-branch'd Ivy Twine;
By this sparkling Glasse of Wine;
By thy Thyrsus so renown'd ;
By the Healths with which th'art crown'd;
By the Feasts which thou do'st prize;
By thy numerous Victories;
By the Howls by Maenad's made ;
By this Hau-gou Carbonade;
By thy colours, red and white;
By the Tavern thy delight;
By the sound thy Orgies spred ;
By the shine of Noses red;
By thy Table free for all;
By the jovial Carnivall;
By thy language Cabalistick;
By thy Cymbal, Drum and his stick;
By the Tunes thy Quart-pots strike up;
By thy Sighes, the broaken Hick-up;
By thy mystick Sect of Ranters;
By thy never-tamed Panthers;
By this sweet, this fresh and free air;
By thy Goat, as chaste as We are;
By thy fulsome Cretan Lasse;
By the Old Man on the Asse;
By thy Couzins in mix'd shapes;
By the flowre of fairest Grapes;
By thy Biskes fam'd far and wide;
By thy store of Neats-tongues dry'd;
By thy Incense, Indian smoake;
By the Joyes thou dost provoke;
By this salt Westphalia Gammon;
By these Sauz'iges that inflame one;
By thy tall Majestick Flaggons;
By Mas, Tope, and thy Flap-dragons;
By this Olive's unctuous savour;
By this Orange, the Wines flavour;
By this Cheese orerun with Mites;
By thy dearest Favorites;
To thy frolick Order call us,
Knights of the deep Bowle install us;
And to shew thy self divine,
Never let it want for Wine.