|
|
||
|
Bacchus |
||
|
|
||
|
He that spends his money for honour, and climbs
In the trees of triumph, may sit there and pause ; All he gets for his praise is the error of times, Nurst up by the Pandars of vulgar applause : But the gold that is sold For Canary, brings wit, And there is no honour compared to it.
Some love to wear satin and shine in their silk,
Yet quickly their fashion will alter and vary ; Sometime they'll eat mutton, sometime they'll drink milk, But I am for ever in tune for Canary : It is sack that doth make *
All our wants to be nothing, For we do esteem it both meat, drink, and clothing.
A green goose serves Easter, with gooseberries drest;
And July affords us a dish of green peason ; A collar of brawn is New-year-tide's feast; But sack is for ever and ever in season : 'Twill suffice all the wise Both at all times and places, It is a good friend to all tempers and cases.
Then farewell metheglin, thou dreg of the hives, And cider, thou bastardly darling of summer; You dull the quick blood that Canary revives; Then fill me a pottle of sack in a rummer : For I'll drink till each chink Be full, and 'tis but reason ; And then I shall have no room to harbour treason.
75 |
||
|
|
||