Classic Poem

XXXVII

The Forlorn now halts for the Van;
The Reer-guard draws up to the Main;
And now they altogether croud
Their Troops into a threatning Cloud.

XXXVIII

Fly, fly; the Foe advances fast;
Unto our Fortress, let us hast
Where all the Roarers of the North
Can neither Storm, nor Starve us forth.

XXXIX

There under Ground a Magazine
Of Sovereign juice is cellar'd in,
Liquor that will the Seige maintain,
Should Phœbus ne're return again.

XL

'Tis that, that gives the Poet rage,
And thaws the gelid Blood of Age;
Matures the Young, restores the Old,
And makes the fainting Coward bold.

XLI

It lays the careful Head to rest,
Calms Palpitations in the Breast,
Renders our Lives misfortunes Sweet,
And Venus frolick in the Sheet.

XLII

Then let the chill Scirocco blow,
And gird us round with Hills of Snow;
Or else go whistle to the Shoar,
And make the hollow Mountains roar.

XLIII

Whilst we together jovial sit
Careless, and Crown'd with Mirth and Wit;
Where though bleak Winds confine us home,
Our Fancy round the World shall roam.

XLIV

We'll think of all the Friends we know,
And Drink to all worth Drinking to:
When having Drunk all thine and mine,
We rather shall want Healths than Wine.

XLV

But where Friends fail us, we'll supply
Our friendships with our Charity;
Men that remote in Sorrows live,
Shall by our lusty Brimmers thrive.