Epigram 46. Of a Room in an Ale-house that we call the Apollo

This Room with Mirth and jests we hallow
Unto the Deity of Apollo
And (although here we do want Wine
To consecrate before his Shrine,
To absent Friends) we do prevail
In plenteous Pots of mighty Ale:
Such as it seemes great Dis did love,
Who Ceres daughter from above
Did steal; such drink as will constrain
Ceas'd Oracles to speak again;
And noble Spirits will infuse
Into the poor'st and humblest Muse:
And Men in all the humours dress
Of Ovids Metamorphosis.
An Ant by drinking this is grown
To be a lusty Mirmydon:
The rustick Numa it will bring
From Plow, and make him Rome's great King:
Desire in coldest bosomes move,
Quickning Pygmalion's marble Love:
Against Troy's Conquerours combine,
And turn the victours into Swine.
Then welcome all that hate the Folly
Of Solitary Melancholy,
Love mirth and jests, and mean to hallow
This Room unto the great Apollo.