The Pot Rapsodes.

ILe leave the dish and hugg the Glasse,
Whatere's the meat give me the sauce:
Who swallows Crit, and never drinks
Slike him that speaks before he thinks,
Meat's but a gross parenthesis,
No essence, but in liquid bliss.
Iove were a mortal were it not,
Hee's deified by the Pot;
Europa sat not on his Back,
Had he not swam through Seas of Sack.
I'le mount my thoughts to Giant height
I'm Constellation in conceit.
I'le pluck down Sol, and mount his Sphere,
Then sullen Daphne shall appear;
And seeing me grasp Pboebus rayes,
Shall cringe and crown me with her Bayes
I'le rape the Moon; it shall be said,
Cynthia 'th chang'd the name of Maid.
Her twinkling Girles shall all be ta'ne,
No Virgin left to bear her train.
Thus Conquering Sun, Moon and Stars,
With gods themselves I'le wager Warrs.
Or if on Earth my Minde can rest,
I'le be a Monarch at the least.
Our dull Plebeians shall grow quicker,
Rinc…ng their muddy brains in liquor:
The Miser then shall scatter Cash,
For Wine shall change his Balderdash;
And sing, and drink, and sing,
Till every subject turn a King.
The Conquer'd Gods shall make us legs,
Intreating they may sip the dregs.
Thus will we tipple till the World
Into Oblivion is hurl'd,
And when we seel Old-Age doth come;
We'll post into Elyzium,
And there our chiefest Joy shall be
To think of past Felicitie.