 | Bacchanalia |  |
But by this time Tongues 'gan to rest;
The Talking Game was at the best.
A sleepy Scene beginneth to appear.
Bright Reason's ray,
By damp of Wine, within this Hemisphere,
Was quench'd before: and now dim sense, to stay,
Must not expect, long after Her.
So when, Nights fairest Lanthorn, Cynthia bright
Is set; each little mist, or thin-spread Cloud
Sufficient is to shroud
The pink-ey'd Stars, and make a pitchy Night.
Old Morpheus comes, with Leaden Key,
His drowsie Office to perform:
Though some there are, that do affirm,
'Twas Bacchus did it; and that He
Had Legal Right, to lock up each mans Brain:
Since every Room
His own Goods did contain,
And was his proper Wine-Cellar become.
The Talking Game was at the best.
A sleepy Scene beginneth to appear.
Bright Reason's ray,
By damp of Wine, within this Hemisphere,
Was quench'd before: and now dim sense, to stay,
Must not expect, long after Her.
So when, Nights fairest Lanthorn, Cynthia bright
Is set; each little mist, or thin-spread Cloud
Sufficient is to shroud
The pink-ey'd Stars, and make a pitchy Night.
Old Morpheus comes, with Leaden Key,
His drowsie Office to perform:
Though some there are, that do affirm,
'Twas Bacchus did it; and that He
Had Legal Right, to lock up each mans Brain:
Since every Room
His own Goods did contain,
And was his proper Wine-Cellar become.
| Bacchanalia | |