Prethee trouble me no more;
I will drink, be mad, and rore:
Alcmae'on and Orestes grew
Mad, when they their Mothers slew:
But I no man having kill'd
Am with hurtless fury fill'd;
Hercules with madness strook,
Bent his Bow, his Quiver shook;
Ajax mad, did fiercely wield
Hectors Sword, and graspt his Shield:
I nor Spear nor Target have,
But this Cup (my weapon) wave:
Crown'd with roses, thus for more
Wine I call, drink, dance, and rore.