And may we no more of his pencil see Than two churchwardens, and mortality. Should we go now a-wand'ring, we should meet With catchpoles, whores and carts in ev'ry street: Now when each narrow lane, each nook and cave, Sign-posts and shop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave, When riotous sinful plush, and tell-tale spurs Walk Fleet Street and the Strand, when the soft stirs Of bawdy, ruffled silks, turn night to day; And the loud whip and coach scolds all the way; When lust of all sorts, and each itchy blood From the Tower-wharf to Cymbeline, and Lud, Hunts for a mate, and the tir'd footman reels 'Twixt chairmen, torches, and the hackney wheels. Come, take the other dish; it is to him That made his horse a senator: each brim Look big as mine: the gallant, jolly beast Of all the herd--you'll say--was not the least. Now crown the second bowl, rich as his worth I'll drink it to; he, that like fire broke forth Into the Senate's face, cross'd Rubicon, And the State's pillars, with their laws thereon, And made the dull grey beards and furr'd gowns fly Into Brundusium to consult, and lie. This, to brave Sylla! why should it be said We drink more to the living than the dead? Flatt'rers and fools do use it: let us laugh At our own honest mirth; for they that quaff To honour others, do like those that sent Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent. Drink deep; this cup be pregnant, and the wine Spirit of wit, to make us all divine, That big with sack and mirth we may retire Possessors of more souls, and nobler fire; And by the influx of this painted sky, And labour'd forms, to higher matters fly; So, if a nap shall take us, we shall all, After full cups, have dreams poetical. Let's laugh now, and the press'd grape drink, Till the drowsy day-star wink; And in our merry, mad mirth run Faster, and further than the sun; And let none his cup forsake, Till that star again doth wake; So we men below shall move Equally with the gods above. TO AMORET, OF THE DIFFERENCE 'TWIXT HIM AND OTHER LOVERS, AND WHAT TRUE LOVE IS. Mark, when the evening's cooler wings Fan the afflicted air, how the faint sun, Leaving undone, What he begun, Those spurious flames suck'd up from slime and earth To their first, low birth, Resigns, and brings. They shoot their tinsel beams and vanities, Threading with those false fires their way; But as you stay And see them stray, You lose the flaming track, and subtly they Languish away, And cheat your eyes.