Classic Poem

Out of the Wine-Pot cry'd the Fly,
Whilst the Grave Frog sate croaking by,
Than live a Watry Life like thine,
I'd rather choose to dye in Wine.

I.

I Never Water could endure,
Though ne're so Crystalline and Pure,
Water's a Murmurer, and they
Design more Mischief than they say;
Where Rivers smoothest are and clear,
Oh there's the Danger, there's the Fear;
But I'll not grieve to dye in Wine,
That Name is sweet, that Sound's Divine.
Thus from the Wine-Pot, &c.

II.

Dull Fish in Water live we know,
And such insipid Souls as thou;
While to the Wine do nimbly fly,
Many such pretty Birds as I:
With Wine refresh'd, as Flowers with Rain,
My Blood is clear'd, inspir'd my Brain;
That when the Tory Boys do sing,
I buz i'th' Chorus for the King.
Thus from the Wine-Pot, &c.

III.

I'm more belov'd than thou canst be,
Most Creatures shun thy Company;
I go unbid to ev'ry Feast,
Nor stay for Grace, but fall o'th' Best:
There while I quaff in Choicest Wine,
Thou dost with Puddle-water dine,
Which makes thee such a Croaking thing.
Learn to drink Wine, thou Fool, and sing;
Thus from the Wine-Pot, &c.

IV.

In Gardens I delight to stray,
And round the Plants do sing and play:
Thy Tune no Mortal does avail,
Thou art the Dutch-man's Nightingale:
Wouldst thou with Wine but wet thy Throat,
Sure thou wouldst leave that Dismal Note;
Lewd Water spoils thy Organs quite,
And Wine alone can set them right.
Thus from the Wine-Pot, &c.

V.

Thy Comerades still are Newts and Frogs,
Thy Dwelling Saw-pits, Holes, and Bogs:
In Cities I, and Courts am free,
An Insect too of Quality.
What Pleasures, Ah! didst thou but know,
This Heav'nly Liquor can bestow:
To drink, and drown thou'dst ne'er repine;
The Great Anacreon dy'd by Wine.
Thus from the Wine-Pot, &c.