Ode (Come, let us drink away the time)

Come, let us drink away the time,
A pox upon this pelting Rhyme!
When Wine's run high, Wit's in the prime.

Drink, and stout drinkers are true joys,
Odes, Sonnets, and such little toys,
Are exercises fit for Boys.

Then to our Liquor let us sit,
Wine makes the Soul for Action fit,
Who bears most drink, has the most wit.

The whining Lover, that does place
His wonder in a painted Face,
And wasts his substance in the chace,

Could not in Melancholy pine,
Had he Affections so divine,
As once to fall in love with Wine.

The Gods themselves their revels keep,
And in pure Nectar tipple deep,
When slothful Mortals are asleep.

They fudled once, for recreation,
In Water, which by all relation,
Did cause Deucalions Inundation.

The spangled Globe, as it held most,
Their Bowl, was with Salt-water dos't,
The Sun-burnt Centre was the Toast.

In drink, Apollo always chose
His darkest Oracles to disclose,
'T was Wine gave him his Ruby-Nose.

The Gods then let us imitate,
Secure of Fortune, and of Fate,
Wine Wit, and Courage does create.

Who dares not drink's a wretched Wight;
Nor can I think that Man dares fight
All day, that dares not drink all night.

Fill up the Goblet, let it swim
In foam, that overlooks the brim,
He that drinks deepest, here's to him.

Sobriety, and Study breeds
Suspition of our Thoughts, and Deeds;
The down-right Drunkard no Man heeds.

Let me have Sack, Tobacco store,
A Drunken Friend, a Little Wh—re,
Protector, I will ask no more.