Iter boreale With large additions of several other poems: being an exact collection of all hitherto extant. Never before published together. The author R. Wild |
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Upon some Bottles of Sack and Claret,
laid in Sand, and covered with a Sheet.
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63
Upon some Bottles of Sack and Claret, laid in Sand, and covered with a Sheet.
Enter, and see this Tomb (Sirs) do not fearNo Spirits, but of Wine, will fright you here:
Weep o're this Tomb, your Sorrows here may have
Wine for their sweet Companions in the Grave.
A dozen Shakespears here interr'd do lie;
Two dozen Johnsons full of Poetry.
Did not the Mother Hogshead, from whose womb
These Babes sprang forth, burst when she saw this Tomb,
And swell with grief? Did not the Butler sink,
To see himself turn Sexton to his Drink?
'Twere commendable Sacriledge, no doubt,
Could I come at your Grave, to steal you out:
Howe'er, from this thy anxious Grave I will
Some virtuous Ashes take, wherewith I'll fill
The Glass I preach by; for I must be just,
There lies Divinity within thy Dust.
Unhappy Grape, could not one pressing do,
But now alive you must be buryed too?
Sleep on, but scorn to die, immortal Liquer:
The burying of thee thus will make thee quicker:
Mean while thy Friends prayloud, that thou maist hive
A speedy Resurrection from the Grave,
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