The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy Prose and Verse [by Edward Ward] |
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THE WINE Bibber's WISH. |
 | The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy |  |
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THE WINE Bibber's WISH.
O give me, kind Bacchus, thou God of the Vine,
Not a Pipe or a Tun, but an Ocean of Wine,
And a Ship that's well Mann'd with such rare merry Fellows,
That ne'er forsook Tavern for Porterly Ale-house;
May her Bottom be leaky to let in the Tipple,
And no Pump on board her to save Ship or People;
So that each jolly Lad should suck heartily round,
And be always oblig'd to drink on or be drown'd.
Not a Pipe or a Tun, but an Ocean of Wine,
And a Ship that's well Mann'd with such rare merry Fellows,
That ne'er forsook Tavern for Porterly Ale-house;
May her Bottom be leaky to let in the Tipple,
And no Pump on board her to save Ship or People;
So that each jolly Lad should suck heartily round,
And be always oblig'd to drink on or be drown'd.
Let a Fleet from Virginia well laden with Weed,
And a Cargo of Pipes that we nothing may need,
Attend at our Stern to supply us with Guns,
And to weigh us out Funk not by Pounds but by Tuns
And a Cargo of Pipes that we nothing may need,
Attend at our Stern to supply us with Guns,
And to weigh us out Funk not by Pounds but by Tuns
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When thus fitted out, we would sail cross the Line,
And swim round the World in a Sea of good Wine,
Steer safe in the middle, and vow never more,
To renounce such a Life for the Pleasures on Shore,
The greatest of which, besides that of the Bottle,
Is a Whore that's no more than impertinent Tattle,
And is but at best one of Pandora's Boxes
That poysons the World with her Claps and her Poxes
From such sort of Plagues we would ever live free,
And like Xanthus lay Wagers we'd drink up the Sea;
Look chearfully round us and comfort our Eyes,
With a Deluge of Claret inclos'd with the Skies,
A Sight that wou'd mend a pale Mortal's Complexion,
And make him blush more than the Sun by Reflection;
No Zealous Contentions should ever perplex us,
No Politick Jarrs should divide us or vex us,
No Presbiter Jack should reform us or ride us,
The Stars and our whimsical Noddles should guide us
No blustering Storms should possess us with Fears,
Or hurry us like Cowards from drinking to Prayers,
But still with full Bowls we'd for Bacchus maintain
The most glorious Dominions o'th' Clarety Main,
And tipple all round till our Eyes shone as bright,
As the Sun does by Day or the Stars do by Night.
And swim round the World in a Sea of good Wine,
Steer safe in the middle, and vow never more,
To renounce such a Life for the Pleasures on Shore,
The greatest of which, besides that of the Bottle,
Is a Whore that's no more than impertinent Tattle,
And is but at best one of Pandora's Boxes
That poysons the World with her Claps and her Poxes
From such sort of Plagues we would ever live free,
And like Xanthus lay Wagers we'd drink up the Sea;
Look chearfully round us and comfort our Eyes,
With a Deluge of Claret inclos'd with the Skies,
A Sight that wou'd mend a pale Mortal's Complexion,
And make him blush more than the Sun by Reflection;
No Zealous Contentions should ever perplex us,
No Politick Jarrs should divide us or vex us,
No Presbiter Jack should reform us or ride us,
The Stars and our whimsical Noddles should guide us
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Or hurry us like Cowards from drinking to Prayers,
But still with full Bowls we'd for Bacchus maintain
The most glorious Dominions o'th' Clarety Main,
And tipple all round till our Eyes shone as bright,
As the Sun does by Day or the Stars do by Night.
Thus thus would I live free from Care or Design,
And when Death should prevail I'd be pickl'd in Wine,
That is toss'd over-board, have the Sea for my Grave
And lie nobly Intomb'd in a Blood-colour'd Wave,
That living or dead, both my Body and Spirit
Should float round the Globe in an Ocean of Claret.
The truest of Friends, and the best of all Juices,
Worth both the rich Metals that India produces;
For all Men, we find, from the Young to the Old,
Will exchange for the Bottle, their Silver or Gold,
Except rich Fanaticks, a Pox on their Pictures,
Who make themselves Slaves to their Prayers and their Lectures
And think that on Earth there is nothing Divine,
But a Canting old Fool and a Bag full of Coin;
What tho the dull Saint makes his Standard and Sterling
His Refuge, his Glory, his God and his Darling;
The Mortal that drinks is the only brave Fellow,
Tho never so poor he's a King when he's mellow,
Grows richer than Crassus with whimsical thinking,
And never knows Care whilst he follows his drinking
And when Death should prevail I'd be pickl'd in Wine,
That is toss'd over-board, have the Sea for my Grave
And lie nobly Intomb'd in a Blood-colour'd Wave,
That living or dead, both my Body and Spirit
Should float round the Globe in an Ocean of Claret.
The truest of Friends, and the best of all Juices,
Worth both the rich Metals that India produces;
For all Men, we find, from the Young to the Old,
Will exchange for the Bottle, their Silver or Gold,
Except rich Fanaticks, a Pox on their Pictures,
Who make themselves Slaves to their Prayers and their Lectures
And think that on Earth there is nothing Divine,
But a Canting old Fool and a Bag full of Coin;
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His Refuge, his Glory, his God and his Darling;
The Mortal that drinks is the only brave Fellow,
Tho never so poor he's a King when he's mellow,
Grows richer than Crassus with whimsical thinking,
And never knows Care whilst he follows his drinking
| The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy | |