But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt;

Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca drown,
And twice with vinegar procured from town;
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.

Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat:
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl!
Serenely full, the epicure would say,

Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day.

Sydney Smith (1771-1845]

VERSES PLACED OVER THE DOOR AT THE ENTRANCE INTO THE APOLLO ROOM AT THE DEVIL TAVERN

WELCOME all who lead or follow,
To the Oracle of Apollo-
Here he speaks out of his pottle,
Or the tripos, his tower bottle:
All his answers are divine,
Truth itself doth flow in wine.
Hang up all the poor hop-drinkers,
Cries old Sim, the king of skinkers;
He the half of life abuses,

That sits watering with the Muses.
Those dull girls no good can mean us;

Wine it is the milk of Venus,

And the poet's horse accounted:

Ply it, and you all are mounted.

'Tis the true Phobian liquor,

Cheers the brain, makes wit the quicker,

Pays all debts, cures all diseases,
And at once three senses pleases.

Welcome all who lead or follow,

To the Oracle of Apollo.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN

SOULS of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise

Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Dressed as though bold Robin Hood;
Would, with his Maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away
Nobody knew whither, till
An Astrologer's old quill

To a sheepskin gave the story,—
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new-old Sign
Sipping beverage divine,

And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac!

Souls of Poets dead and gone,

What Elysium have ye known

Happy field or mossy cavern

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

John Keats [1795-1821]

"GIVE ME ALE”

WHEN as the chill Sirocco blows,

And Winter tells a heavy tale;
When pyes and daws and rooks and crows
Sit cursing of the frosts and snows;

Then give me ale.

Ale in a Saxon rumkin then,

Such as will make grimalkin prate; Bids valor burgeon in tall men, Quickens the poet's wit and pen, Despises fate.

Ale, that the absent battle fights,

And frames the march of Swedish drum, Disputes with princes, laws, and rights, What's done and past tells mortal wights, And what's to come.

Ale, that the plowman's heart up-keeps
And equals it with tyrants' thrones,
That wipes the eye that over-weeps,
And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps
The o'er-wearied bones.

Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus' daughter,
Wine's emulous neighbor, though but stale,
Ennobling all the nymphs of water,

And filling each man's heart with laughter-
Ha! give me ale!

Unknown

"JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD"

From "Gammer Gurton's Needle "

I CANNOT eat but little meat,

My stomach is not good;

But sure I think that I can drink

With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care,

I nothing am a-cold;

I stuff my skin so full within

Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,

And a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead;
Much bread I not desire.

No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold;

I am so wrapped and thoroughly lapped
Of jolly good ale and old.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl
Even as a maltworm should,
And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old."

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,

Even as good fellows should do;

They shall not miss to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to;

And all poor souls that have scoured bowls

Or have them lustily trolled,

God save the lives of them and their wives,

Whether they be young or old.

Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,

Whether it be new or old.

DRINK to-day, and drown all sorrow;
You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow:
Best, while you have it, use your breath;
There is no drinking after death.

Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit,
There is no cure 'gainst age but it:

It helps the headache, cough, and phthisic,
And is for all diseases physic.

Then let us swill, boys, for our health;
Who drinks well, loves the commonwealth.
And he that will to bed go sober

Falls with the leaf still in October.

John Fletcher [1579-1625]

CORONEMUS NOS ROSIS ANTEQUAM
MARCESCANT

LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice!
The changeable world to our joy is unjust,
All treasure's uncertain,

Then down with your dust!

In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,
For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.

We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly,
Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy:
Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea,
Dame Venus, love's lady,

Was born of the sea:

With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense,
For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crowned And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground, Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendor That none but the stars

Are thought fit to attend her,

Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense,
Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,
Turn all our tranquill'ty to sighs and to tears?