Song XV. To his Friend that had vow'd Small-Beer

Leave off fond Hermite, leave thy vow,
And fall again to drinking
That beauty that won't sack allow,
Is hardly worth thy thinking,
Dry love, or small, can never hold,
And without Bacchus, Venus soon grows cold.

Doest think by turning Anchorite;
Or a dull Small-Beer sinner.
Thy cold embraces can invite,
Or sprightless Courtship win her?
No, 'tis Canary that inspires,
'Tis Sack, like Oyle, gives Flames to am'rous Fires.

This makes thee chant thy Mistress name,
And to the heav'ns to raise her;
And range this universal frame
For Epithets to praise her.
Low liquors render brains unwitty,
And ne're provoke to love, but move to pity.

Then be thy self, and take thy Glass,
Leave off this dry Devotion,
Thou must like Neptune court thy lass,
Wallowing in Nectars Ocea,
Let's offer at each Ladies shrine,
A full crown'd bowl, first here's a health to thine.