CHANSON BACCHIQUE .

Boy, who the rosy stream dost pass,
Fill up for me the largest glass,
The largest glass and oldest wine —
The laws of drinking give as mine.
Still must my ever-thirsty lip
From large and flowing bumpers sip:
Ye limpid streams, where'er ye flow,
Far hence to water-drinkers go;
Go to the dull and the sedate,
And fly the God whose bowers ye hate.