Classic Poem

Hear me as if thy eares had palate, Jack,
I sing the praise of Sack:
Hence with Apollo and the muses nine,
Give me a cup of wine.
Sack will the soule of Poetry infuse,
Be that my theam and muse.
But Bacchus I adore no Deity,
Nor Bacchus neither unlesse Sack he be.

Let us by reverend degrees draw near,
I feel the Goddesse here.
Loe I, dread Sack, an humble Priest of thine
First kisse this cup thy shrine.
That with more hallowed lips and inlarg'd soule
I may receive the whole:
Till Sibyl -like full with my God I lye,
And every word I speak be Prophesie.

Come to this Altar you that are opprest,
Or otherwise distrest,
Here's that will further grievances prevent,
Without a Parliament:
With fire from hence if once your blood be warm
Nothing can doe you harme;
When thou art arm'd with Sack, thou canst not feel
Though thunder strike thee; that hath made thee steel.

Art sick man? doe not bid for thy escape
A cock to Æsculape;
If thou wouldst prosper, to this Altar bring
Thy gratefull offering,
Touch but the shrine, that does the God enclose,
And straight thy feaver goes;
Whilst thou immagin'st this, he's given thee
Not onely health but immortality.

Though thou wert dumb as is the scaly fry
In Neptunes royalty:
Drink but as they doe, and new wayes shalt find
To utter thy whole mind;
When Sack more severall language has infus'd
Than Babels builders used:
And whensoever thou thy voyce shalt raise,
No man shall understand but all shall praise.

Hath cruell nature so thy senses bound
Thou canst not judge of sounds?
Lo where yon narrow fountaine scatters forth
Streams of an unknown worth:
The heavenly musick of that murmur there
Would make thee turne all eare;
And keeping time with the harmonious flood,
Twixt every bubble thou shalt cry, good, good.

Has fortune made thee poor, dost thou desire
To heap up glorious mire?
Come to this stream where every drop's a Pearl
Might buy an Earl:
Drench thy selfe soundly here and thou shalt rise
Richer than both the 'Indies.
So may'st thou still enjoy with full content
Midas his wish without his punishment.

All this can Sack, and more than this Sack can,
Give me a fickle man
That would be somewhat faine but knows not what,
There is a cure for that:
Let him quaffe freely of this powerfull flood,
He shall be what he would.
To all our wishes Sack content does bring,
And but our selves can make us every thing.