A sudden Phansie at Midnight

How ist we are thus melancholie? what
Are our rich ferkins out? or rather that
Which did inspire them, the Immortal wine,
That did create us, like it self, divine?
Or are we Nectar-sated to the hight?
Or do we droop under the aged night?
If so: weelvote it ne'r to be eleven
Rather then us to part at six and seaven:
Moult then thy speedy wings old Time! and be
As slow-pac't as becomes thy age! that we
May chirp awhile, and when we take our ease,
Then flie and poast as nimbly as you please!
Play the good fellow with us, and sit down
A while, that we may drink the to'ther round!
I'l promise here is none shal thee misuse,
Or pluck thee by the foretop in abuse.
Time saies he wil nor can he stay, 'cause he
Thinks him too grave for your young companie.

It makes no matter—Sirs
How say you yet toth'tother Subsidie?
Yes yes: And let our Ganymede nimbly flie
And fil us of the same Poetick sherrie
Ben-Iohnson us'd to quaffe to make him merrie.
Such as would make the grey-beard botles talk
Had they but tongues, or, had they legs, to walk:
Such as would make Apollo smile, or wu'd
Draw all the Sisters to our Brotherhood.
And though the bald Fool staies not, let him know
Weel sit and drink as fast as he shal go.
So as the salt Anchovis swam in oyl,
Wee'l make them swim again in sacks sweet spoil.