SCENE I.
Bacchus,
with his bowl on his head.
Air.
Alas, alas! how fast
I feel my spirits sinking;
The joys of life are past,
I've lost the power of drinking.
'Egad, I find at last
The heavenly charms of tinking,
And in the sound I cast
The miseries of thinking.
Recitative.
I'm plaguy ill—in devilish bad condition—
What shall I do?—I'll send for a physician:
But then the horrid fees—aye, there's the question—
'Tis losing all a man's estate in jesting,
Whilst nurses and apothecaries pártake—
Zounds, this will never do, 'twill make my heartache.
Come then, ye fiddlers, play up t'other bout,
I've a new nostrum, and I'll sing it out.
Air.
Scrape, ye fiddlers, tinkle, tinkle,
Music makes my twinklers twinkle;
Humming,
Thrumming,
Groaning,
Toning,
Squeaking,
Shrieking,
Bawling,
Squalling,
O the sweet charms of tinkle, tinkle!
Recitative.
But this is trifling with the hot disease,
Nor wine nor brandy now can give me ease.
Air.
When a jolly toper ails,
And his nectar-bottle fails,
He's in a most heavenly condition:
Unless he can drink,
To the grave he must sink,
And Death be his only physician.
Recitative.
Zounds, can't I guess the cause—hum—could I say a
Short prayer or two, with pretty Mistress Maia?
Ah! there it is! why, I was woundy stupid—
Faith, this is all the handy-work of Cupid.
Since I'm in love then, over ears and head in,
'Tis time to look about for bed and bedding;
But first uncovering, in this magic helmet
I'll shew the God that love and wine are well met.
Air.
Fill the bowl, and fill it high,
Vast as the extended sky!
Since the dire disease is found,
Wine's a balm to cure the wound.
O the rapturous delights,
When with women wine unites!
Recitative.
O here, my satyrs, fill the mighty cup,
Haste, fly, begone! I'm dying for a sup.
Air.
I'll fly to her arms,
And rifle her charms,
In kisses and compliments lavish:
When heated by wine,
If she should not incline,
I'll try all my courage, and ravish.
