Classic Poem

Come let us drink away the time,
A Pox upon this pelting Rhyme,
When Wine runs high, Wit 's in the Prime:
Drink and stout Drinkers, are true Joys,
Odd Sonnets and such little Toys,
Are Exercises fit for Boys.

The whining Lover that doth place
His Fancy on a painted Face,
And wasts his Substance in the Chase
Would ne'er in Melancholy pine,
Had he Affections so Divine,
As once to fall in Love with Wine .

Then to our Liquor let us sit,
Wine makes the Soul for Action fit;
Who drinks most Wine , hath the most Wit:
The Gods themselves do Revels keep,
And in pure Nectar tipple deep,
When sloathful Mortals are asleep.

They fuddled me for Recreation,
In Water, which by all Relation
Did cause Deucalions Inundation;
The Spangle Globe had it almost.
Their Cups were with Salt-Water dos'd,
The Sun-burnt Center was the Toast.

The Gods then let us imitate,
Secure from carping Care and Fate;
Wine , Wit, and Courage both create:
In Wine Apollo always chose
His darkest Oracles to disclose;
'Twas Wine gave him his Ruby-nose.

Who dares not drink 's a wretched Wight,
Nor do I think that Man dares fight
All Day, that dares not drink all Night:
Come fill my Cup untill it swim
With Foam, that overlooks the Brim.
Who drinks the deepest? Here's to him .