Scene VI.
Cupid, Bacchus with a bowl.
BACCHUS.
Recitative.
'Odsniggers, t'other draught, 'tis devilish heady,
Olympus turns about; (staggers) steady, boys, steady!
Air.
If Jove should pretend that he governs the skies,
I swear by this liquor his thundership lies;
A slave to his bottle, he governs by wine,
And all must confess he's a servant of mine.
Air changes.
Rosy, sparkling, powerful wine,
All the joys of life are thine!
Search the drinking world around,
Bacchus everywhere sits crowned:
Whilst we lift the flowing bowl,
Unregarded thunders roll.
Air changes.
Since man, as says each bearded sage,
Is but a piece of clay,
Whose mystic moisture lost by age,
To dust it falls away;
'Tis orthodox beyond a doubt,
That drought will only fret it;
To make the brittle stuff hold out,
Is thus to drink and wet it.
Recitative.
Ah! Master Cupid, 'slife, I did not s'ye,
'Tis excellent champagne, and so here's t'ye:
I brought it to these gardens as imported,
'Tis monstrous strong—you need not twice be courted.
Come drink, my boy—
CUPID.
Hence, monster, hence! I scorn thy flowing bowl,
It prostitutes the sense, degenerates the soul.
BACCHUS.
Gadso, methinks the youngster's woundy moral!
He plays with ethics like a bell and coral.
Air.
'Tis madness to think
To judge ere you drink,—
The bottom all wisdom contains:
Then let you and I
Now drink the bowl dry,
We both shall grow wise for our pains.
CUPID.
Pray keep your distance, beast, and cease your bawling,
Or with this dart I'll send you catterwauling.
Air.
The charms of wine cannot compare
With the soft raptures of the fair:
Can drunken pleasures ever find
A place with love and womankind?
Can the full bowl pretend to vie
With the soft languish of the eye?
Can the mad roar our passions move,
Like gentle breathing sighs of love?
BACCHUS.
Go whine and complain
To the girls of the plain,
And sigh out your soul ere she come to the mind;
My mistress is here,
And, faith, I don't fear—
I always am happy, she always is kind.
Air changes.
A pox o' your lasses!
A shot of my glasses
Your arrow surpasses;
For nothing but asses
Will draw in your team;
Whilst thus I am drinking,
My misery sinking,
The cannikin clinking,
I'm lost to all thinking,
And care is a dream.
CUPID.
Provoking insolence!
BACCHUS.
What words it utters!
Alas! poor little creature, how it sputters!
CUPID.
Away, you drunkard wild—
BACCHUS.
Away, you silly child—
CUPID.
Fly, or else I'll wound thy soul.
BACCHUS.
Zounds, I'll drown thee in the bowl!
CUPID.
You rascally broacher,
You hogshead of liquor—
BACCHUS.
You shadow, you poacher!
Aha!—bring me a stick here—
I'll give you a trimmer,
You bladder of air—
CUPID.
You soul of a brimmer—
BACCHUS.
You tool of the fair—
CUPID.
You moveable tun,
You tippler, you sot—
BACCHUS.
Nay, then the work's done,
My arrow is shot.
[Bacchus throws the contents of the bowl in Cupid's face, and runs off.
