Cupid and Bacchus my saints are, FILL me a bowl, a mighty bowl, Let it of silver fashion'd be, As that bright cup amongst the stars. This is part of a long poem. [No poem that Oldham wrote has conferred on him so much honour as the elegiac tribute of Dryden, in which he says Our souls were near allied, and thine SONG XXXIX. You know that our ancient philosophers hold, And in truth, my good friends, I am quite of their mind. What makes a man happy, I never can doubt, 'Tis something within him, and nothing without; This something, they said, was the source of content, And, whatever they call'd it, 'twas wine that they meant. Without us, indeed, it is not worth a pin; But, ye gods! how divine if we get it within; 'Tis then of all blessings the flourishing root, And, in spite of the world, we can gather the fruit. When the bottle is wanting the soul is deprest, The richest and greatest are poor and repine, If with gold and with grandeur you give them no wine; With wine at my heart, I am happy and free, Come fill; and this truth from a bumper you'll know, SONG XL. IN PRAISE OF WINE. BY BEN JONSON ?* LET soldiers fight for pay and praise, Let minions marshal in their hair, And artificial colours wear; We have the native red and white. 'Tis wine, &c. Your pheasant pout, and culver salmon, Not meat to eat, but meat to drink. *This is not found in Jonson's works; and D'Urfey, who furnished the name, might possibly mean Ben Johnson the player, his own cotemporary. But, whoever was the author, the song was certainly written before the Restoration. [A miscellany of poems assuming to be by Ben Jonson, jun. appeared in 1672, and the above might probably have been extracted from that collection.] It makes the backward spirits brave, Some have the phthisic, some the rheum, Some men want youth, and some want health, But he wants nothing that is drunk. SONG XLI. A BACCHANALIAN RANT. BY MR. HENRY CAREY. BACCHUS must now his power resign, It is not fit the wretch should be In competition set with me, Who can drink ten times more than he Make a new world, ye powers divine! Let wine be earth, and air, and sea, Let other mortals vainly wear Let the ambitious toil and think, Let states and empires swim or sink, SONG XLII. [I AM the king and prince of drinkers,' Ranting, rattling, jovial boys : We despise your sullen thinkers, And fill the tavern with our' noise. We sing and we roar, And we drink and call for more, And make more noise than twenty can; 'Tis therefore all we swear, That the man who knows no care, He only deserves the name of a man.] My friend and I we drank whole p―pots Full of sack up to the brim : I drank to my friend, and he drank his pot, So we put about the whim: Three bottles and a quart, We swallow'd down our throat, |