A Hymne to Bacchus.

I Sing thy praise Iacchus,
Who with thy Thyrse dost thwack us:
And yet thou so dost back us
With boldness that we feare
No Brutus entring here;
Nor Cato the severe.
What though the Lictors threat us,
We know they dare not beate us;
So long as thou dost heat us.
When we thy Orgies sing,
Each Cobler is a King;
Nor dreads he any thing:
And though he doe not rave,
Yet he'l the courage have
To call my Lord Maior knave;
Besides too, in a brave,
Although he has no riches,
But walks with dangling breeches,
And skirts that want their stiches,
And shewes his naked flitches;
Yet he'le be thought or seen,
So good as George-a-Green;
And calls his Blouze, his Queene;
And speaks in language keene:
O Bacchus! let us be
From cares and troubles free;
And thou shalt heare how we
Will chant new Hymnes to thee.