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But, Madam, 'tis too sad a truth,
Bacchus is so debauch'd a youth;
That Lees as soon will leave his Wine,
As his corruptions he'l refine.
Ill humours soonest are withstood,
And cured best by letting blood:
That hot-braind God, with fumes opprest,
Bleeds here some ounces of his best.
His Heart-blood-drops he offers here
To you his fair Deliverer;
The Stoick so himself resign'd,
(Hence owning the eternal mind.)
And thus his best Drops did prefer
To Jove, the great Deliverer.
Bacchus is so debauch'd a youth;
That Lees as soon will leave his Wine,
As his corruptions he'l refine.
Ill humours soonest are withstood,
And cured best by letting blood:
That hot-braind God, with fumes opprest,
Bleeds here some ounces of his best.
His Heart-blood-drops he offers here
To you his fair Deliverer;
The Stoick so himself resign'd,
(Hence owning the eternal mind.)
And thus his best Drops did prefer
To Jove, the great Deliverer.
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