Welcome all that lead or follow,
To the oracle of Apollo--
Here he speaks out of his pottle,
Or the tripos, his tower bottle:
All his answers are divine,
Truth itself doth flow in wine.
Hang up all the poor hop-drinkers,
Cries old Sym, the king of skinkers;
He the half of life abuses,
That sits watering with the muses.
Those dull girls no good can mean us,
Wine, it is the milk of Venus,
And the poet's horse accounted:
Ply it, and you all are mounted.
'Tis the true Phoebian liquor,
Cheers the brains, makes wit the quicker,
Pays all debts, cures all diseases,
And at once three senses pleases.
Welcome, all that lead or follow,
To the oracle of Apollo.