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.] _A Song in Praise of SACK._ Hang the _Presbyters_ Gill, bring a pint of Sack, _Will_, More _Orthodox_ of the two, Though a slender dispute, will strike the Elf mute, Here’s one of the honester Crew. In a pint there’s small heart, Sirrah, bring a Quart; There is substance and vigour met, ’Twill hold us in play, some part of the day, But wee’l sink him before Sun-set: The daring old Pottle, does now bid us battle, Let us try what our strength can do; Keep your ranks and your files, and for all his wiles, Wee’l tumble him down stayrs too. Then summon a Gallon, a stout Foe and a tall one, And likely to hold us to’t; Keep but Coyn in your purse, the word is Disburse, Ile warrant he’le sleep at your foot. Let’s drain the whole Celler, Pipes, Buts, and the Dweller, If the Wine floats not the faster; _Will_, when thou dost slack us, by warrant from _Bacchus_, We will cane thy tun-belli’d Master. [p. 54.] _In the praise of WINE._ ’Tis Wine that inspires, And quencheth Loves fires, Teaches fools how to rule a S[t]ate: Mayds ne’re did approve it Because those that doe love it, Despise and laugh at their hate. The drinkers of beer Did ne’re yet appear In matters of any waight; ’Tis he whose designe Is quickn’d by wine That raises things to their height. We then should it prize For never black eyes Made wounds which this could not heale, Who then doth refuse, To drink of this Juice Is a foe to the Comon weale. [Followed by A Glee to the Vicar, beginning, “Let the bells ring, and the boys sing:” for which see the Introduction to our edition of _Westminster Drollery_, pp. xxxvii-viii.] [p. 55.] _On a Cold Chyne of BEEF._ Bring out the Old Chyne, the Cold Chyne to me, And how Ile charge him come and see, Brawn tusked, Brawn well sowst and fine, With a precious cup of Muscadine: CHORUS. _How shall I sing, how shall I look,_ _In honour of the Master-Cook?_ The Pig shall turn round and answer me, Canst thou spare me a shoulder[?], a wy, a wy. The Duck, Goose and Capon, good fellows all three Shall dance thee an antick[,] so shall the turkey; But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me: CHORUS.