Song XIV. The Painters Entertainment

This is the time, and this in the day
Design'd for mirth and sporting,
We'l turn October i May,
And make St. Luke's feast
As pleasant and long as the rest
We'l in our own faces our colours display,
And hallow our yearly resorting.

Then let the bowles turn round round,
While in them our colours we mingle,
To raise our dull souls from the ground,
Our arts and our pains are thus crown'd
And happy are we,
That in unity be
'Tis a hell upon earth to be single.

Chorus.

'Twas love at first that brought us hither,
And love stall keep us here together.

First to the Master of the feast,
This health is consecrated;
Thence to each sublimary guest,
Whose soul doth desire,
This Nectar to raise and inspire;
Till he with Apelles himself doth contest,
And his fancy is elevated,

Chorus. 'Twas love, &c.

Lo how the air, the earth, and th' seas,
Have all brought in their treasure,
To feast each sence with rarities,
Plump Bacchus brings wine,
And Ceres her dainties doth joyn;
The air with rare musick doth eccho, and these
All club to create us pleasure.

Chorus. 'Twas love, &c.

Now in our fancies we will suppose
The word in all its glory;
Imagine all delight that growes,
And pleasures that can
Fill up the vast soul of a man;
And glut the coy pallat, the eyes, ears and nose,
By the fancy presented before you.

Chorus. 'Twas love, &c.

We'l use no pencil now but the bowl,
Let every artist know it,
In sack we will pourtray each soul;
Each health that is took,
Will give us the livelier look;
And who's he that dares our fancy controul,
When each Painter is turned a poet?

Chorus. 'Twas love, &c.

And though we cannot the day extend
Beyond its proper measure;
The night and it themselves shall blend,
We care not for night,
When our hearts and our heads are all light,
Nor the time, nor the company shall have an end,
Honest mirth of it self is a treasure.

Chorus. 'Twas love, &c.

Then let, &c.
Then let the bowles, &c.
Then let the bowles, &c.
Then let the bowles, &c.
Then let the bowles, &c.