On a Pint of Sack
Old poets Hipocrin admire,
And pray to water to inspire
Their wit and Muse with heavenly fire;
Had they this Heav’nly Fountain seen,
Sack both their Well and Muse had been,
And this Pint-pot their Hipocrin.
Had they truly discovered it
They had like me thought it unfit
To pray to water for their wit.
And had adored Sack as divine,
And made a Poet God of Wine,
And this pint-pot had been a shrine.
Sack unto them had been in stead
Of Nectar, and their heav’nly bread,
And ev’ry boy a Ganimed;
Or had they made a God of it,
Or stil’d it patron of their wit,
This pot had been a temple fit.
Well then Companions is’t not fit,
Since to this Jemme we ow[e] our wit,
That we should praise the Cabonet,
And drink a health to this divine,
And bounteous pallace of our wine[?]:
Die he with thirst that doth repine!
[p. 53.]