[ Old Seneca, fam'd for his parts,
Who tutor❜d the bully of Rome,
Grew wife o'er his cups and his quarts
Which he drank like a mifer at home :
And to fhow he lov'd wine that was good
To the laft, we may truly aver it,

That he tinctur'd the bath with his blood,
So faneied he died in his claret. ]

Pythag'ras did filence enjoin

On his pupils, who wifdom would feek,
Because that he tippled good wine,

Till himself was unable to speak:
And when he was whimfical grown,
With fipping his plentiful bowls,
By the ftrength of the juice in his crown,
He conceiv'd tranfmigration of fouls. ]
Copernicus, like to the reft,

Believ'd there was wifdom in wine,
And fancied a cup of the best

Made reafon the brighter to fhine;
With wine he replenish'd his veins,
And made his philofophy reel;

Then fancied the world like his brains,
Run round like a chariot wheel.

[Theophraftus, that eloquent fage,
By Athens fo greatly ador'd,
With a bottle would boldly engage,
When mellow, was brisk as a bird;
Would chat, tell a story, and jest,

Moft pleasantly over a glass,
And thought a dumb guest at a feast,
But a dull philofophical afs. ]

[ Anaxarchus,

[Anaxarchus, more patient than Job,

By peftles was pounded to death,
Yet fcorn'd that a groan or a fob

Should waste the remains of his breath:
But fure he was free with the glass,
And drank to a pitch of disdain,
Or the ftrength of his wifdom, alas!
I fear would have flinch'd at the pain. ]

Ariftotle, that master of arts,

Had been but a dunce without wine,
And what we ascribe to his parts,
Is due to the juice of the vine:
His belly, moft writers agree,

Was as large as a watering trough;
He therefore jump'd into the sea,
Because he'd have liquor enough.

[ When Pyrrho had taken a glass, He faw that no object appear'd, Exactly the fame as it was

Before he had liquor'd his beard: For things running round in his drink. Which fober he motionless found, Occafion'd the skeptic to think

There was nothing of truth to be found. ]

Old Plato was reckon'd divine,

He wifely to virtue was prone; But had it not been for good wine, His merits we never had known. By wine we are generous made,

It furnishes fancy with wings, Without it we ne'er fhould have had Philofophers, poets, or kings.

SONG XXXIII.

BY MR. HENRY CAREY. *

ENO, Plato, Ariftotle,

ZEN were lovers of the bottle ;

. Poets, painters, and musicians,
Churchmen, lawyers, and phyficians,
All admire a pretty lass,

All require a chearful glafs :
Ev'ry pleasure has its feafon,

Love and drinking are no treason.

WOW Phoebus finketh in the west,

NWelcome long, and welcome jeft,

Midnight shout and revelry,

Tipfy dance and jollity;

Braid your locks with rofy twine,

Dropping odours dropping wine.

Rigour now is gone to bed,
And advice with fcrup'lous head,
Strict age, and four severity,

With their grave saws in flumber lie.

In the burlefque opera of the Dragon of Wantley.
In the Mafque of Comus.

SONG

B

SONG XXXV.

BY DR. DALTON.

Y the gayly circling glafs

We can see how the minutes pafs;
By the hollow cask are told,
How the waning night grows old.

Soon, too foon, the bufy day
Drives us from our fport and play.
What have we with day to do ?
Sons of care! 'twas made for you.

BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN ESQ. t

HIS bottle's the fun of our table,

THIS

His beams are rofy wine;

We planets that are not able
Without his help to fhine.

Let mirth and glee abound!
You'll foon grow bright
With borrow'd light,

And shine as he goes round.

BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

ULCAN, contrive me fuch a cup,

VULCAN

As Neftor us'd of old;

Show all thy fkill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.

In the Mafque of Comus.

In the Duenna.

Make it fo large, that, fill'd with fack

Up to the fwelling brim,

Vaft toafts in the delicious lake,
Like ships at fea, may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek,
With war I've nought to do;
I'm none of those that took Maeftrick,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

Let it no name of planets tell,
Fix'd ftars or conftellations;

For I am no fir Sydrophel,

Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine,
Then add two lovely boys;
Their limbs in am'rous folds entwine,
The type of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my faints are,
May drink and love still reign;

With wine I wash away my care,
And then to love again.

SONG XXXVIII.

FROM ANACREON.

ILL me a bowl, a mighty bowl,

FILL

Large as my capacious foul;

Vaft as my thirft is, let it have
Depth enough to be my grave;

I mean the grave of all my care,

For I defign to bury't there.

Let