University of Virginia Library

[CANTO I.]

O Bacchus , with thy Noble Juice,
Inspire my long neglected Muse,
And raise her, by thy gen'rous Pow'r,
As high as human Wit can tow'r;
That she may loudly sing the Fame
Of all that celebrate thy Name,
And make their Merits far outshine
Their Ruby Cheeks when o'er their Wine;
That the ungrateful World may know,
How much we grov'ling Mortals owe
To thy adopted Sons and Thee,
Those Parents of Felicity,
From whose full Cellars we derive
That Warmth which keeps the World alive;
For should not Bacchus bless the Earth,
All would be Labour, without Mirth,
And nothing giv'n us, but a Wife,
To recompence the Toils of Life,
With Children and domestick Strife.
When tir'd with intricate Affairs,
Or punish'd with inviduous Cares;
When Disappointment gives us trouble,
In South-Sea, or some other Bubble;
When Duns, by their impatient canting,
Perplex us, 'cause the Money's wanting;
When teas'd at Home by Nuptial Dowdy,
Too Fond, too Noisy, or too Moody;
Whither can Man repair to find
Relief, when thus disturb'd in Mind,
But to those Mansions where the best
Of Cordial Wines delight the Tast,
And comfort the uneasy Breast.
Thither Physicians fly to save
Themselves from the devouring Grave,
And, to preserve their Health, imbibe
Much safer Draughts than they prescribe.
What Doctors or Dispensers care
To take the Physick they prepare;
Or when themselves are out of order,
Will run the hazard of Self-murder?
When ailing, they're too wise to sport
With Nature, by the Rules of Art;
They've no recourse to damn'd Emeticks,
Catharticks, Opiates, Diarroheticks,
They'll turn not up their Bums to Clysters,
Nor flea their Backs with Spanish Blisters,
Or will themselves depend upon
This Course, or that Catholicon:
But their declining Health repair,
With cordial Wines and wholsome Air.
Not but Physicians are of use
To those that do their Health abuse;
Pills, Powders, Balsams, and the like,
May comfort Patients when they're sick,
And costly Juleps may be good
To cleanse the Purse, if not the Blood:
But when the Doctor finds the least
Indisposition touch his Breast,
He wisely passes by the Shop
Where all his Slops are hustl'd up,
And, thoughtless of his Drops or Pills,
To the next Tavern slily steals,
Submiting, there, the healing Pow'r
Of Art, to some more skilful Draw'r,
Consulting him, without a Fee,
What his next Cordial-draught shall be.
And thus, at once, removes the Qualm
With potent Mountain, or with Palm.
Our Teachers too, who would dethrone
The God of Wine and pull him down,
And, by their Doctrine, make us think,
'Tis almost Popery to drink;
In Pulpit at the Bottle rail,
And damn the Drunkard, Tooth and Nail,
As if they fear'd the crowd of Laymen,
Who work like Slaves to drink like Draymen,
Should swallow all the best, and leave
No Priest-Wine for the Pudding-sleeve;
Therefore, since Laicks take the freedom
To drink like Fish, if not exceed 'em,
I see no reason but each Guide
Should liquor their Canonick Pride,
And drink as well as those they ride.
Besides, who loves the Bottle better,
Than he that rails against the Creature?
As Maidens seemingly despise
The only darling of their Eyes.
For Wine, tho' very bad for some
That gorge it super naculum
Till Reason, which we Mortals boast,
Is in their drunken Hickups lost:
Yet always, for the Cloth, take notice,
Tis good, in verbum Sacerdotis,
Because, as well becomes their Station,
They kiss the Cup with moderation;
Except, by chance, when Holy Men
With Holy Brethren meet, and then
Each other's Failings they connive at,
And sip, as Ladies do, in private:
But Vertue, that submits to one
Small Sin, may into greater run.
The Lawyers too, whose crabbed Studies,
In time, raise Students to be Judges,
By help of Wines, our Vintners draw,
Slide thro' the Mazes of the Law,
And conquer knotty Tasks with ease
Such as would pose a Hercules;
For, of all Labours, none transcend
The Works that on the Brain depend:
Nor could we finish Great Designs,
Without the Pow'r of Gen'rous Wines:
For, as substantial hearty Food
Is for the grosser Body good,
So all the brighter Parts of Nature,
Refin'd from more Etherial Matter,
Require the most celestial Juices,
To rend'r 'em fit for nobler Uses.
Well may the Poet's Fancy halt,
That's doom'd to Rhime o'er muddy Malt;
A Theme so naked and jejune,
It puts all Fancy out of Tune,
And makes Apollo's thoughtful Son
As dull as what he writes upon.
Change but his Liquor into Wine,
And Wit must flash in e'ery Line;
For all we write, do, say, or think,
Are but the Sportings of our Drink.
When a low Purse (the Lord defend us)
Does to the Alehouse humbly send us,
We fuddle, just like Grooms and Coachmen,
Belch, wrangle, fart, and talk like Dutchmen,
And not one merry Word, that's bright,
Shall pass the Board from Noon to Night.
But when we to the Tavern steer,
With Pocket full and Temper clear,
My Landlord's Bacchanalian Face,
The charming Bottle and the Glass,
The tinkling of the Bell at Bar,
The grateful News of, Coming Sir,
Madam's sweet Voice, which, like a Law,
Keeps all the list'ning Draw'rs in awe,
Yield such a harmony of Sounds,
As the kind Bottle goes its rounds,
That Wit and Wine fill e'ery Brain,
And make us rather Gods than Men.
Thus, Bacchus, 'tis alone to thee,
We Mortals owe our Jollity,
Without thy Aid, Apollo soon
Must abdicate his Sapient Throne,
And, wanting Nectar to support him,
Untune his Lyre that makes us court him.
For neither Heathen Gods above,
Nor Mortals that beneath 'em move,
Can, without Bacchus, Live or Love.
What Orator at Bar can plead,
Till he has rins'd his thoughtful Head,
Or, with a chearful Morning's Draught,
Refresh'd the Glandules of his Throat,
And wash'd from his awaking Mind,
The Dregs that Sleep had left behind.
The Tongue is like a Water-Mill,
Which, wanting Liquor, must stand still,
But when with Wine 'tis well supply'd,
As the Bridge Engine with the Tide,
It grinds and polishes our Wit,
And makes our stubborn Language fit
To sooth and qualify the Fury
Of angry Judge or partial Jury.
What Man can, by the force of Nature,
Be truly bright without the Creature?
Or rouze the Wit which Heav'n has giv'n him,
Unless a Bottle to enliven him?
No Lover sure can die for Beauty,
Or pine for Joys above the Shoe-tye;
No Hero hack or hew his Way
Thro' bloody Storms, for little Pay,
Nor any mortal Soul incline
To Love, or Brav'ry, but by Wine;
Without it, we should ne'er have heard
Of this wise Lord, that wond'rous Bard,
Or known the Names of Politician,
Priest, Poet, Lawyer, or Physician;
For, when we read of mighty Things
Perform'd by Heroes or by Kings,
Believe they quaff'd off briming Goblets,
Before they lac'd their Iron Doublets,
And, Dutchman like, would never fight
A stroke, until their Hearts were light;
So that, in short, those valiant Deeds
That fill our Hist'ries and our Heads,
Were, to the honour of the Vine,
Not done by Warriors, but by Wine.
Great Alexander, to inflame
His Soul, that thirsted after Fame,
As some Historians do report,
Tip'd off five Gallons and a Quart,
And then, into a Rapture hurl'd,
He arm'd, and conquer'd all the World:
Hence modern Songs most justly say,
That Wine does Wonders ev'ry Day.
The sober Sot is all Mens loathing,
A worthless Muckworm, good for nothing,
A Spy upon his Neighbour's Vices,
A Wretch that ev'ry one despises,
A saving Rogue, whose pinch-gut Pence
Will damn him, for that dire Offence,
To Torments endless and severe,
Deserv'd by starving Misers here.
These are the Sneakers that decline,
For Wealth, the charming Pow'r of Wine,
And seek to please no other Itch,
But that of growing basely Rich.
These are the sordid Slaves that muse
O'er Coffee, Tea, and lying News,
Abjurors of the noble Tun
That Bacchus sits enthron'd upon,
Who never at one meeting spend
Above Three-half-pence with a Friend;
None durst exclaim against the use
Of Wine, or blame the heav'nly Juice,
But sober Miscreants, such as these are,
Fit to hatch Plots or stab a Cæsar;
For Wine's of such a loyal nature,
That 'twill unlock the close-mouth'd Traytor,
And make him, in his Cups, betray
The impious Game he means to play;
'Tis, therefore, Men of ill design
Avoid good Fellows and good Wine,
As Jolly Mortals should those Asses,
That hug their Gold and slight their Glasses.
What Am'rous Youth, to Love inclin'd,
Can press dear Phillis to be kind,
In Words that will at once inspire
The blushing Nymph with like desire,
Till noble Wine has wash'd away
Those Fears that do their Joys delay,
And banish'd from their trembling Youth,
The native bashfulness of both;
Then, mutually inclin'd to bless
Each other with a soft Embrace,
Their struggling Souls with vigour meet,
And kindly taste the short and sweet.
Thus Love can only with his Darts
Perplex and terrify our Hearts,
But Gen'rous Bacchus pity takes,
And heals the Wounds that Cupid makes.
What Priest can join two Lovers Hands,
But Wine must seal the Marriage Bonds;
From Church to Tavern they repair,
To crown their solemn Nuptials there:
As if celestial Wine was thought
Essential to the sacred Knot,
And that each Bridegroom and his Bride
Believ'd they were not firmly ty'd
Till Bacchus, with his bleeding Tun,
Had finish'd what the Priest begun;
No Love, no Contract, no Handfasting,
No Bonds of Friendship can be lasting;
No Bargain made, or Quarrel ended,
No Int'rest mov'd, or Cause defended,
No Mirth advanc'd, no Musick sweet,
No humane Happiness compleat,
Or joyful Day, unless its crown'd
With Claret, and the Glass goes round
Since all the frothy Joys of Life,
Musick, a Mistress, or a Wife,
Except we do the same imbellish
With noble Wine, quite lose their Relish.
Who can be happy, tho' in Health,
With Beauty, Grandure, Wit, or Wealth?
Unless kind Bacchus crowns the Blessing,
And makes it worthy our possessing.
Thus mighty Wealth to Misers giv'n
Is nothing but the Mock of Heaven,
That tempts the humble Fool to wave
His Bonnet to the Golden Knave,
And makes the Muckworm falsly think,
He's Great and Happy in his Chink,
When none are bless'd but those that drink.
Give me the gen'rous Soul that dares
To drown in Wine all worldly Cares,
The Jolly Heart who freely spends
His Surplus with his Bottle Friends,
And envies not those South-Sea Noddies
That loll in Coaches with their Dowdies,
Nor all the glitt'ring Pomp that waits
On Powers, Titles, and Estates,
But one that does for Pleasure choose
Some Tavern where Good-Fellows use,
And ne'er seems backward, when he's there
Of spending what he well can spare,
But hugs the Flask, and frankly bends
To all the Motions of his Friends,
Those Bosom Ministers of Ease,
So hard to find and hard to please.
Let stingy Mortals rail at Wine,
And angry Wives reproach the Vine,
Let all the sober Saints decry
The Bottle and its Charms defy,
Let Misers damn the Cordial Creature,
Because they love their Money better,
And ne'er get fill'd, or elevated,
But when at publick Feasts they're treated.
I'll laugh at the penurious Knave,
And honour Bacchus to my Grave;
No more enslave my self by Thinking,
But make my self a King by drinking.
Yet first, my Muse shall let you see
What Vintners are, or ought to be,
Those Demy Gods, from whose rich Cellars
Arise, Popes, Addisons, and Knellers,
And ev'ry Worthy that can claim
A place in the Records of Fame;
For all that's excellent or fine,
Derive their Origin from Wine,
And should each Vintner shut his Door,
Love, Wit, and Arts would be no more,
But all the Land become at once,
A dirty Hive of stupid Drones.