Lo! proud Flaminius at the splendid board, The easy chaplain of an atheist Lord, Quaffs the bright juice, with all the gust of sense, 120 And clouds his brain in torpid elegance; In china vases see the sparkling ill, From gay Decanters view the rosy rill; The neat-carv'd pipes in silver settle laid, The screw by mathematic cunning made; The whole a pompous and enticing scene, And grandly glaring for the surplic'd Swain; Oh! happy Priest whose God like Egypt's lies, At once the Deity and sacrifice! But is Flaminius, then, the man alone, 130 To whom the Joys of swimming brains are known? Lo! the poor Toper whose untutor'd sense[2] Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense; Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer Beyond the muddy extacies of Beer; But simple nature can her longing quench Behind the settle's curve, or humbler bench; Some kitchen-fire diffusing warmth around, The semi-globe by Hieroglyphics crown'd; Where canvas purse displays the brass enroll'd, 140 Nor Waiters rave, nor Landlords thirst for gold; Ale and content his fancy's bounds confine, He asks no limpid Punch, no rosy Wine; But sees, admitted to an equal share, Each faithful swain the heady potion bear. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of taste Weigh gout and gravel against ale and rest. Call vulgar palates, what thou judgest so; Say, beer is heavy, windy, cold and slow; Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence, 150 Yet cry when tortur'd, where is Providence? If thou alone art, head and heel, not clear, Alone made steady here, untumour'd there; Snatch from the Board the bottle and the bowl, Curse the keen pain, and be a mad proud Fool. FOOTNOTES: [1] "The mighty Mother, and her Son, who brings The Smithfield Muses to the ear of Kings, I sing. Say ye, her instruments, the great, Call'd to this Work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate; You by whose care, in vain decry'd, and curst, Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first; Say, how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep, And pour'd her spirit o'er the land and deep." Pope's Dunciad.--