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Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,

May drink and love still reign;
With wine I wash away my care,

And then to love again.


From Anacreon.


Fill me a bowl, a mighty bowl,
Large as my capacious soul;
Vast as my thirst is ; let it have
Depth enough to be my grave ;
I mean the grave of all my care,
For I design to bury't there.

Let it of silver fashion'd be,
Worthy of wine, worthy of me,
Worthy to adorn the spheres,
As that bright cup amongst the stars.
Fill me a bowl, å mighty bowl,
Large as my capacious soul.

* 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
• Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.']


You know that our ancient philosophers hold,
There is nothing in beauty, or honour, or gold;
That bliss in externals no mortal can find,
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,
And beauty can kindle no flame in the breast;
But with wine in our hearts we are always in love,
We can sing like the linnet, and bill like the dove.

The richest and greatest are poor and repine,
If with gold and with grandeur you give them no wine ;
But wine to the peasant or slave if you bring,
He's as rich as a Jew, and as great as a king.

With wine at my heart, I am happy and free,
Externals without it are nothing to me;
Come fill; and this truth from a bumper you'll know,
That wine is, of blessings, the blessing below.




Let soldiers fight for pay and praise,

And money be the miser's wish;
Poor scholars study all their days,

And gluttons glory in their dish :
'Tis wine, pure wine, revives sad souls,
Therefore give me the cheering bowls.

Let minions marshal in their hair,

And in a lover's lock delight,
And artificial colours. wear ;

We have the native red and white.
"Tis wine, &c.

Your pheasant pout, and culver salmon,

And how to please your palates think;
Give us a salt Westphalia gammon,

Not meat to eat, but meat to drink.
'Tis wine, &c.

* This is not found in Jonsov's works; and D'Urfey, who fur. nished 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 hy Ben Jonson, jun. appeared in 1672, and the above might probably have been extracted from tliat collection.]

It makes the backward spirits brave,

That lively that before was dull; Those grow good fellows that are grave, And kindness flows from


brim-full. 'Tis wine, &c.

Some have the phthisic, some the rheum,

Some have the palsy, some the gout ; Some swell with fat, and some consume,

But they are sound that drink all out. 'Tis wine, &c.

Some men want youth, and some want health,

Some want a wife, and some a punk, Some men want wit, and some want wealth;

But he wants nothing that is drunk. 'Tis wine, pure wine, revives sad souls, Therefore give me the cheering bowls.




Bacchus must now his power resign,
I am the only god of wine ;
It is not fit the wretch should be
In competition set with me,
Who can drink ten times more than her

Make a new world, ye powers divine !
Stock'd with nothing else but wine;
Let wine its only product be,
Let wine be earth, and air, and sea,
And let that wine be all for me.

Let other mortals vainly wear
A tedious life in anxious care ;
Let the ambitious toil and think,
Let states and empires swim or sink,
My sole ambition is to drink.


[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,

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