 | The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester |  |
127
Anacreontic.
[The Heaven drinks each Day a Cup]
The Heaven drinks each Day a Cup,
No Wonder Atlas holds her up.
The Trees suck up the Earth and Ground,
And in their Brown Bowls drink around.
The Sea too, whom the Salt makes dry,
His greedy thirst to satisfy,
Ten Thousand Rivers drinks, and then
He's drunk, and spews them up again.
The Sun (and who so right as he)
Sits up all Night to drink the Sea.
The Moon quaffs up the Sun, her Brother,
And wishes she cou'd tope another.
Ev'ry Thing fuddles; then that I,
Is't any Reason should be dry?
Well; I'le be content to Thirst,
But too much Drink shall make me first.
No Wonder Atlas holds her up.
The Trees suck up the Earth and Ground,
And in their Brown Bowls drink around.
The Sea too, whom the Salt makes dry,
His greedy thirst to satisfy,
Ten Thousand Rivers drinks, and then
He's drunk, and spews them up again.
The Sun (and who so right as he)
Sits up all Night to drink the Sea.
The Moon quaffs up the Sun, her Brother,
And wishes she cou'd tope another.
Ev'ry Thing fuddles; then that I,
Is't any Reason should be dry?
Well; I'le be content to Thirst,
But too much Drink shall make me first.
| The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester | |