As swiftly answering their command,
As tunes obey the artful hand.
And whilst I do thus discover
Th’ ingredients of a happy lover,
'T is, my Anacreon! for thy sake
I of the grape no mention make.
Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
Cursed plant 1 I lov'd thee well;
And 't was oft my wanton use
To dip my arrows in thy juice.
Cursed plant l’t is true, I see,
Th' old report that goes of thee—
That, with giants' blood the earth
Stain’d and poison'd, gave thee birth;
And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite
On men in whom the gods delight.
Thy patron Bacchus, ’t is no wonder,
Was brought forth in flames and thunder;
In rage, in quarrels, and in fights,
Worse than his tigers, he delights;
In all our heaven I think there be
No such ill-natur'd God as he.
Thou pretendest, traiterous Wine !
To be the Muses’ friend and mine:
With love and wit thou dost begin,
False fires, alas ! to draw us in ;
Which, if our course we by them keep,
Misguide to madness or to sleep:
Sleep were well; thou’ast learnt a way
To death itself now to betray.