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A Tankard of Ale |
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COME, THOU MONARCH OF THE VINE1
By William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Come, thou monarch of the vine, Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne ! In thy vats our cares be drown'd, With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd : Cup us, till the world go round, Cup us, till the world go round !
BACCHUS
By Hugh Crompton 8
Come, jolly god Bacchus, and open thy store,
Let the big-belly'd grapes of their burden be eased, Let thy liberality freely flow o'er,
For 'tis by thy bounty that we are appeased: It is sack that we lack, It is sack that we crave ; It is sack that we fight for, and sack we will have !
Let pining Heraclitus drink of his tear,
And snivelling Tymon lie sick in his cell; And let the coarse bumpkin preach law in his beer ; But 'tis wine makes our fame and our glory to 6well: It is wine makes divine, All our wits, and renowns, The peasant with sceptres, the shepherd with crowns.
1 From " Antony and Cleopatra/'
• From " Pierides, or the Muses' Mount," 1658.
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