75

THE EPICURE

FILL the bowl with rosy wine,
Around our temples roses twine,
And let us cheerfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses, smile.
Crown'd with roses, we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.

To-day is ours; what do we fear?
To-day is ours; we have it here.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay;

Let's banish business, banish sorrow,
To the gods belongs to-morrow.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

76

UPON DRINKING IN A BOWL

VULCAN, contrive me such a cup

As Nestor used of old;

Show all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large, that, fill'd with sack
Up to the swelling brim,

Vast toasts on the delicious lake,

Like ships at sea, may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek,
With war I've nought to do,

I'm none of those that took Maestrick,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

Let it no name of planets tell,
Fix'd stars, or constellations;

For I am no Sir Sidrophel,

Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine,
Then add two lovely boys;

Their limbs in amorous folds entwine,
The type of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,

May Drink and Love still reign:

With wine I wash away my care,
And then to love again.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER

77

(1647-1680).

CHANSON À BOIRE

COME, let's mind our drinking,

Away with this thinking;

It ne'er, that I heard of, did any one good; Prevents not disaster,

But brings it on faster,

Mischance is by mirth and by courage withstood.

He ne'er can recover

The day that is over,

The present is with us, and does threaten no ill;

He's a fool that will sorrow

For the thing call'd to-morrow,

But the hour we've in hand we may wield as

we will.

There's nothing but Bacchus

Right merry can make us,

That virtue particular is to the vine;

It fires ev'ry creature

With wit and good-nature;

Whose thoughts can be dark when their noses do shine?

A night of good drinking
Is worth a year's thinking,

There's nothing that kills us so surely as

sorrow;

Then to drown our cares, boys,

Let's drink up the stars, boys,

Each face of the gang will a sun be to

morrow.

CHARLES COTTON (1630-1687).

78

JOAN'S ALE WAS NEW

THERE were six jovial tradesmen,
And they all sat down to drinking,
For they were a jovial crew;

They sat themselves down to be merry,
And they called for a bottle of sherry;
You're welcome as the hills, says Nolly,
While Joan's ale is new, brave boys,
While Joan's ale is new.

The first that came in was a soldier
With his firelock over his shoulder,
Sure no one could be bolder,

And a long broadsword he drew:

He swore he would fight for England's ground, Before the nation should be run down;

He boldly drank their healths all round,

While Joan's ale was new.

The next that came in was a hatter,

Sure no one could be blacker,

And he began to chatter

Among the jovial crew:

He threw his hat upon the ground,

And swore every man should spend his pound,

And boldly drank their healths all round,

While Joan's ale was new.

The next that came in was a dyer,
And he sat himself down by the fire,
For it was his heart's desire

To drink with the jovial crew:
He told the landlord to his face
The chimney-corner should be his place,
And there he'd sit and dye his face,
While Joan's ale was new.

The next that came in was a tinker,
And he was no small beer drinker,
And he was no strong ale shrinker
Among the jovial crew;

For his brass nails were made of metal,
And he swore he'd go and mend a kettle,
Good heart, how his hammer and nails did rattle,
While Joan's ale was new!

The next that came in was a tailor
With his bodkin, shears, and thimble,
He swore he would be nimble

Among the jovial crew ;

They sat and they called for ale so stout
Till the poor tailor was almost broke,
And was forced to go and pawn his coat,
While Joan's ale was new.

The next that came in was a ragman
With his rag-bag over his shoulder,
Sure no one could be bolder

Among the jovial crew;

They sat and called for pots and glasses
Till they were all as drunk as asses,
And burnt the old ragman's bag to ashes,
While Joan's ale was new.