 | The Poems of Ambrose Philips |  |
A BACCHANALIAN SONG.
1
Come, fill me a Glass, fill it high,A Bumper, a Bumper I'll have:
He's a Fool that will flinch, I'll not bate an Inch,
Tho' I drink my self into the Grave.
2
Here's a Health to all those jolly Souls,Who like me will never give o'er,
Whom no Danger controuls, but will take off their Bowls,
And merrily stickle for more.
3
Drown Reason and all such weak Foes,I scorn to obey her Command;
Cou'd she ever suppose I'd be led by the Nose,
And let my Glass idly stand?
4
Reputation's a Bugbear to Fools,A Foe to the Joys of dear drinking,
Made use of by Tools, who'd set us new Rules,
And bring us to politick thinking.
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5
Fill 'em all, I'll have six in a Hand,For I've trifl'd an Age away;
'Tis in vain to command the fleeting Sand
Rowls on, and cannot stay.
6
Come my Lads, move the Glass, drink about,We'll drink the Universe dry;
We'll set Foot to Foot, and drink it all out,
If once we grow sober we die.
| The Poems of Ambrose Philips | |