Upon Drinking in a Bowl

Vulcan contrive me such a Cup
As Nestor us'd of old:
Shew all thy Skill to trim it up;
Damask it round with Gold.

Make it so large that, fill'd with Sack
Up to the swelling Brim,
Vast Toasts on the delicious Lake,
Like Ships at Sea, may swim.

Engrave not Battel on his Cheek;
With War I've nought to do:
I'm none of those that took Mastrick,
Nor Yarmouth Leaguer knew.

Let it no Name of Planets tell,
Fixt Stars, or Constellations:
For I am no Sir Sindrophel,
Nor none of his Relations.

But carve thereon a spreading Vine;
Then add two lovely Boys;
Their Limbs in amorious Folds intwine,
The Type of future Joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my Saints are;
May Drink and Love still reign:
With Wine I wash away my Cares,
And then to Love again.