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A Tankard of Ale
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The golden pomp is come ;
For now each tree doth wear (Made of her pap and gum)
Rich beads of amber here.
Now reigns the rose, and now Th' Arabian dew besmears
My uncontrolled brow, And my retorted hairs.
Homer, this health to thee,
In sack of such a kind, That it would make thee see,
Though thou wert ne'er so blind.
Next, Virgil, I'll call forth, To pledge this second health
In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian Commonwealth.
A goblet next I'll drink
To Ovid ; and suppose, Made he the pledge, he'd think
The world had all one nose.
Then this immensive cup
Of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up
To that terse Muse of thine. 80 |
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