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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.

It grieves me when I see what fate Does on the best of mankind wait. Poets or lovers let them be, "T is neither love nor poesy Can arm, against death's smallest dart, The poet's head or lover's heart; But when their life, in its decline, Touches th’ inevitable line, All the world's mortal to them then, And wine is aconite to men; Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.




WOL. Is s

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