The Works of Mr. John Oldham :: :: University of Virginia Library

Yes, you are mighty wise, I warrant, mighty wise!
With all your godly Tricks, and Artifice,
Who think to chouse me of my dear and pleasant Vice.
Hence holy Sham! in vain your fruitless Toil:
Go, and some unexperienc'd Fop beguile,

207

To some raw ent'ring Sinner cant, and Whine,
Who never knew the worth of Drunkenness and Wine.
I've tried and prov'd, and found it all Divine:
It is resolv'd, I will drink on, and die,
I'll not one minute lose, not I,
To hear your troublesom Divinity:
Fill me a top-full Glass, I'll drink it on the Knee,
Confusion to the next that spoils good Company.

II.

That Gulp was worth a Soul, like it, it went,
And thorowout new Life, and Vigour sent:
I feel it warm at once my Head, and Heart,
I feel it all in all, and all in every part.
Let the vile Slaves of Bus'ness toil, and strive,
Who want the Leisure, or the Wit to live;
While we Life's tedious journey shorter make,
And reap those Joys which they lack sense to take.

208

Thus live the Gods (if ought above our selves there be)
They live so happy, unconcern'd, and free:
Like us they sit, and with a careless Brow
Laugh at the petty Jars of Humane kind below:
Like us they spend their Age in gentle Ease,
Like us they drink; for what were all their Heav'n, alas!
If sober, and compell'd to want that Happiness.

III.

Assist almighty Wine, for thou alone hast Power,
And other I'll invoke no more,
Assist, while with just Praise I thee odore;
Aided by thee, I dare thy worth rehearse,
In Flights above the common pitch of groveling Verse.
Thou art the Worlds great Soul, that heav'nly Fire,
Which dost our dull half-kindled mass inspire.
We nothing gallant, and above our selves produce,
Till thou do'st finish Man, and Reinfuse.

209

Thou art the only source of all, the world calls great,
Thou didst the Poets first, and they the Gods create:
To thee their Rage, their Heat, their Flame they owe,
Thou runst half share with Art, and Nature too.
They owe their Glory, and Renown to thee;
Thou giv'st their Verse, and them Eternity.
Great Alexander, that big'st Word of Fame,
That fills her Throat, and almost rends the same,
Whose Valour found the World too strait a Stage
For his wide Victories, and boundless Rage,
Got not Repute by War alone, but thee,
He knew, he ne'r could conquer by Sobriety,
And drunk as well as fought for universal Monarchy.

IV.

Pox o' that lazy Claret! how it stays?
Were it again to pass the Seas;
'Twould sooner be in Cargo here,
'Tis now a long East-India Voyage, half a year.

210

'Sdeath! here's a minute lost, an Age, I mean,
Slipt by, and ne'r to be retriev'd again.
For pitty suffer not the precious Juyce to die,
Let us prevent our own, and its Mortality:
Like it, our Life with standing and Sobriety is pall'd,
And like it too, when dead, can never be recall'd.
Push on the Glass, let it measure out each hour,
For every Sand an Health let's pour:
Swift as the rowling Orbs above,
And let it too as regularly move:
Swift as Heav'ns drunken red-fac'd Traveller, the Sun,
And never rest, till his last Race be done,
Till time it self be all run out, and we
Have drunk our selves into Eternity.

V.

Six in a hand begin! we'll drink it twice apiece.
A Health to all that love, and honour Vice.
Six more as oft to the great Founder of the Vine,
(A God he was, I'm sure, or should have been)

211

The second Father of Mankind I meant,
He, when the angry Pow'rs a Deluge sent,
When for their Crimes our sinful Race was drown'd,
The only bold, and vent'rous man was found,
Who durst be drunk agen, and with new Vice the World replant.
The mighty Patriarch 'twas of blessed Memory,
Who scap'd in the great Wreck of all Mortality,
And stock'd the Globe afresh with a brave drinking Progeny,
In vain would spightful Nature us reclaim,
Who to small Drink our Isle thought fit to damn,
And set us out o'th' reach of Wine,
In hope strait Bounds could our vast Thirst confine.
He taught us first with Ships the Seas to roam,
Taught us from Forein Lands to fetch supply,
Rare Art! that makes all the wide world our home,
Makes every Realm pay Tribute to our Luxury,

212

VI.

Adieu poor tott'ring Reason! tumble down!
This Glass shall all thy proud usurping Powers drown,
And Wit on thy cast Ruines shall erect her Throne:
Adieu, thou fond Disturber of our Life!
That check'st our Joys, with all our Pleasure art at strife:
I've something brisker now to govern me,
A more exalted noble Faculty,
Above thy Logick, and vain boasted Pedantry.
Inform me, if you can, ye reading Sots, what 'tis,
That guides th' unerring Deities:
They no base Reason to their Actions bring,
But move by some more high, more heavenly thing,
And are without Deliberation wise:
Ev'n such is this, at least 'tis much the same,
For which dull Schoolmen never yet could find a name,

213

Call ye this madness? damn that sober Fool,
('Twas sure some dull Philosopher, some reas'ning Tool)
Who the reproachful Term did first devise,
And brought a scandal on the best of Vice.
Go, ask me, what's the rage young Prophets feel,
When they with holy Frenzy reel:
Drunk with the Spirits of infus'd Divinity,
They rave, and stagger, and are mad, like me.

VII.

Oh, what an Ebb of Drink have we?
Bring us a Deluge, fill us up the Sea,
Let the vast Ocean be our mighty Cup;
We'll drink't, and all its Fishes too like Loaches up.
Bid the Canary Fleet land here: we'll pay
The Fraight, and Custom too defray:
Set every man a Ship, and when the Store
Is emptied; let them strait dispatch, and Sail for more:

214

'Tis gone: and now have at the Rhine,
With all its petty Rivulets of Wine:
The Empire's Forces with the Spanish well combine,
We'll make their Drink too in confederacy joyn.
'Ware France the next: this Round Bourdeaux shall swallow,
Champagn, Langon, and Burgundy shall follow.
Quick let's forestal Lorain;
We'll starve his Army, all their Quarters drain,
And without Treaty put an end to the Campagn,
Go, set the Universe a tilt, turn the Globe up,
Squeeze out the last, the slow unwilling Drop:
A pox of empty Nature! since the World's drawn dry,
'Tis time we quit mortality,
'Tis time we now give out, and die,
Lest we are plagu'd with Dulness and Sobriety.
Beset with Link-boys, we'll in triumph go,
A Troop of stagg'ring Ghosts down to the Shades below:

215

Drunk we'll march off, and reel into the Tomb,
Natures convenient dark Retiring Room;
And there, from Noise remov'd, and all tumultuous strife,
Sleep out the dull Fatigue, and long Debauch of Life.

[Tries to go off, but tumbles down, and falls asleep.