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Come Bacchus, God of Poetry, by right;
Lend me thine influence, whilst now I write.
Thy Sackbut can into my breast inspire
More active heat, than can Apollo's Lire.
He's an Usurper; and his pow'r a crack,
If we his Helicon compare with Sack.
Lock up that Nectar but a year or two,
And see what all his Hippocrene can do.
That Trough of Pegasus! a pretious grace
To vaunt thus of an Hackney's wat'ring-place!

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Not the least spark of Wit it can inspire,
Without assistance both of Malt and Fire.
When Heat within the lusty Grape does grow,
'Tis to it's self Malt, Heat, and Water too.
A Pipe of Sack (which is great Bacchus's Throne)
Is both Parnassus and a Helicon.
Juno her self and Venus too are dull,
If Hebe do not fill their Glasses full.
New Vigour to their Eyes it does afford;
Mars swears it whets his Courage and his Sword.
The Spirits of Jove himself are dull as Lead,
Without this Nectar fill'd by Ganimede;
He's one of Bacchus's Drawers. Sack creates
Life in those Gods that do direct our Fates.
See the Injustice then of lying Fame!
Bacchus deserves, Apollo gets the Name!
Thus Princes in their Wars fill up the Story,
When their brave Generals deserve the Glory.

Blest Soil! that does distill so rare a Juyce,
More precious far than Canaan did produce.
The Milk and Honey which did thence proceed,
Made only nauseous Butter-milk and Mead.
Whose Influence more of Phlegm than Blood did breed,
Dispersing Weakness through the Jewish Seed.
Made them desist and give their conquest o're,
Truckling to those they trampled on before:
When as the haughty Spaniard did decline
The Universal Monarchy, 'till Wine
Infus'd that lofty Spirit in his Veins;
And more by that then by his Sword he reigns.

117

Bold Britain does her Trophies here decline,
As never conquer'd but by Spanish Wine.
Their mighty Navy, tho she forc'd to wrack,
Yet falls beneath the Puissance of Sack.
Had Sack been the Commodity, the Day
Had lucky been at

We were worsted at Rheez by France, but came most gloriously off at Tercera against Spain.

Rheez, as Tercera.
French-Wines work small efforts; as may be known
By th' Spirits, which in Gallick veins are shown.
Their Wines and Spirits both alike are vain;
Soon kindled, and as soon piss'd out again.

Wonder then, that we fall not out with Spain
On purpose, those rich Islands to obtain!
Our English youth would all its valour try,
In one six months to win, and drink 'em dry.
Wee'd rigg out such a Fleet that all the Ground
Should scarce sufficient be for Ballast found:
And that high Peek there should the honour gain,
To be Main-mast i'th' Royal Sovereign.
The Rhyming Tribe would rally all its store,
And strive to charm the Dolphins to the Shore,
Where on their scaly Saddles they might sit,
Serving as Trumpets to th' Canary Fleet.
Whose ecchoing blasts, like those of Flame, would do;
Incite their courages, and crown 'em too.
What rich Incouragements might hence needs flow;
When they at once Lawrels, and Life bestow?
Their share should then be double, as their pains;
Because their private, would be publick gains.
For Sack is only proper for the use
Of Poets, who can best preserve the juyce.

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Which when distill'd by active heats o'th' brain,
Is all th' Elixir that our Chimists mean.
Churchmen and Poets might increase their light;
Since Psalms and Plays, both may be better'd by 't.
None that could get a Boat would stay behind;
Our very breaths would serve us for a Wind.
Nay rather than be absent on this Quarrel,
There's some would venture over in a Barrel;
Despising Tempests, and the fears of Wrack,
With very hopes of filling it with Sack.
Cowards would gladly bleed a Quart in fight,
To drink a Quart of dearer Sack at night.
And this does prove Bacchus the God of War;
Since he alone can make a Dutch-man dare.

If you would kill these Boars, let 'em not root
Within a Vineyard, and you'l surely do't.
Keep 'em from Brandy, and from other Wine,
These Holland Boars are worse than other Swine.
O, for some Devillish Swine-herd, to convey
This Herd, like th' Gadarenes, into the Sea!
But this conclusion is not lately found;
Like th' Devil's Darlings, they will not be drown'd:
Except by one attempt, which cannot fail;
When we get Sack, let's send 'em all our Ale.
Which soon its wonderful Effects will shew,
And drown them, which the Ocean cannot do.
Hail, mighty Bacchus! thou hast won the Field;
Mars and Apollo both are forc'd to yield.
Claim then the Empire due to thy deserts;
And henceforth reign thou God of Arms and Arts.