 | Miscellanies in Prose and Verse |  |
Some STANZAS from a famous Club.
Fair Venus, the goddess of beauty and love,
Arose from the froth and foam of the sea;
Minerva leap'd out of the noddle of Jove,
A coy sullen prude, as most authors agree:
Blithe Bacchus, they tell us, the prince of good fellows,
Was hatch'd in Jove's thigh; but attend to my tale,
For they who thus chatter, know nought of the matter,
He rose from a hogshead of excellent ale:
Arose from the froth and foam of the sea;
Minerva leap'd out of the noddle of Jove,
A coy sullen prude, as most authors agree:
Blithe Bacchus, they tell us, the prince of good fellows,
Was hatch'd in Jove's thigh; but attend to my tale,
For they who thus chatter, know nought of the matter,
He rose from a hogshead of excellent ale:
45
Then having survey'd the butt whence he sprung,
And finding it empty, he sorrowful grew,
So mounting astride, set his rump on the bung,
And away to the gods and the goddesses flew:
From the skies he look'd down, with many a frown,
Then swore 'twas a pity, that casks e'er should fail,
For that his birth-chamber, once held liquid amber,
And that gods had ne'er tasted such nectar as ale.
And finding it empty, he sorrowful grew,
So mounting astride, set his rump on the bung,
And away to the gods and the goddesses flew:
From the skies he look'd down, with many a frown,
Then swore 'twas a pity, that casks e'er should fail,
For that his birth-chamber, once held liquid amber,
And that gods had ne'er tasted such nectar as ale.
Ye Galens, who more execution have done,
With bolus, and draught, with powder, and pill,
Than the halter, the block with the axe, or the gun,
Or even than gin, that such numbers does kill,
To dispatch us the quicker, you forbid us malt liquor,
Till our bodies grow thin, and our faces look pale;
Regard 'em who pleases, what cures our diseases,
Like a cordial doze of sound mantling ale?
With bolus, and draught, with powder, and pill,
Than the halter, the block with the axe, or the gun,
Or even than gin, that such numbers does kill,
To dispatch us the quicker, you forbid us malt liquor,
Till our bodies grow thin, and our faces look pale;
Regard 'em who pleases, what cures our diseases,
Like a cordial doze of sound mantling ale?
46
Ye prelates, deans, deacons, priests, curates, or vicars,
Whose joy is the tankard, you'll vouch it as true,
That the soft Derby malt makes the best of all liquors,
And none understand the good creature like you;
It dispells e'ery vapour, saves pen, ink, and paper;
And when you're dispos'd from the rostrum to rail,
It moistens your throats, and you preach without notes,
Inspir'd with the spirit of stout humming ale.
Whose joy is the tankard, you'll vouch it as true,
That the soft Derby malt makes the best of all liquors,
And none understand the good creature like you;
It dispells e'ery vapour, saves pen, ink, and paper;
And when you're dispos'd from the rostrum to rail,
It moistens your throats, and you preach without notes,
Inspir'd with the spirit of stout humming ale.
Let each lover that talks of flames, darts, and daggers,
With sparkling mild ply the nymph pretty hard;
Then, then never fear, but she'll tope till she staggers,
And soon be dispos'd, her sweet swain to reward;
He may turn her, and twist her, as much as he'd list, Sir,
And o'er all the feints of her coyness prevail;
Then fill the glass often, for nothing can soften,
And open each heart, like our right nappy ale.
With sparkling mild ply the nymph pretty hard;
Then, then never fear, but she'll tope till she staggers,
And soon be dispos'd, her sweet swain to reward;
He may turn her, and twist her, as much as he'd list, Sir,
And o'er all the feints of her coyness prevail;
Then fill the glass often, for nothing can soften,
And open each heart, like our right nappy ale.
| Miscellanies in Prose and Verse | |