I. Bacchus.
1
Come jolly God Bicchus, and open thy store,
Let the big-belly'd Grapes of their burden be eased:
Let thy liberality freely flow o're,
For 'tis by thy bounty that we are appeased.
It is Sack that we lack,
It is Sack that we crave;
It is Sack that we fight for, and Sack we will have.
2
Let pining Heraclytus drink of his Tear,
And sniv'ling Tymon lye sick in his cell;
And let the course Bumpkin preach law in his beer;
But 'tis Wine makes our fame and our glory to swell.
It is Wine makes divine
All our wits, and renownes
The Peasant with Scepters, the Shepherd with Crowns.
3
He that spends his money for honour, and climes
In the trees of triumph, may sit there and pause;
All he gets for his pains is the errour of times,
Nurst up by the Pandars of vulgar applause:
But the gold that is fold
For Canary, brings wit,
And there is no honour compared to it.
4
Some love to weare sattin, and shine in their silk,
Yet quickly their fashion will alter and vary;
Sometime they'l eat mutton, sometime they'l drink milk:
But I am for ever in tune for Canary.
It is sack that doth make
All our wants to be nothing,
For we do esteem it both meat, drink, and clothing.
5
A green goose serves Easter, with gooseberries drest;
And July affords us a dish of green peason;
A Collar of Brawn is New-years-tide Feast;
But sack is for ever and ever in season:
'Twill suffice all the wise
Both at all times and places,
It is a good friend to all tempers and cases.
6
Then farewell Metheglin, thou dreg of the hives,
And Cider, thou bastardly darling of Summer;
You dull the quick blood that Canary revives:
Then fill me a pottle of Sack in a rummer;
For Ile drink till each chink
Be full, and 'tis but reason;
And then I shall have no room to harbour treason.
