Especially with thee, whose hasty zeal Against the late rejected commerce bill Made thee rise up, like an audacious elf, To do the speaker honour, not thyself. But if thou soar'st above the common prices, By virtue of subscription to thy Crisis, And nothing can go down with thee but wines Press'd from Burgundian and Campanian vines, Bid them be brought; for, though I hate the French, I love their liquors, as thou lovest a wench; Else thou must humble thy expensive taste, And, with us, hold contentment for a feast. The fire's already lighted; and the maid Has a clean cloth upon the table laid, Who never on a Saturday had struck, But for thy entertainment, up a buck. Think of this act of grace, which by your leave Susan would not have done on Easter Eve, Had she not been inform'd over and over, 'Twas for th'ingenious author of The Lover.[4] Cease, therefore, to beguile thyself with hopes, Which is no more than making sandy ropes, And quit the vain pursuit of loud applause, That must bewilder thee in faction's cause. Pr'ythee what is't to thee who guides the state? Why Dunkirk's demolition is so late? Or why her majesty thinks fit to cease The din of war, and hush the world to peace? The clergy too, without thy aid, can tell What texts to choose, and on what topics dwell; And, uninstructed by thy babbling, teach Their flocks celestial happiness to reach. Rather let such poor souls as you and I, Say that the holidays are drawing nigh, And that to-morrow's sun begins the week, Which will abound with store of ale and cake, With hams of bacon, and with powder'd beef, Stuff d to give field-itinerants relief. Then I, who have within these precincts kept, And ne'er beyond the chimney-sweeper's stept, Will take a loose, and venture to be seen, Since 'twill be Sunday, upon Shanks's green; There, with erected looks and phrase sublime, To talk of unity of place and time, And with much malice, mix'd with little satire, Explode the wits on t'other side o' th' water. Why has my Lord Godolphin's special grace Invested me with a queen's waiter's place, If I, debarr'd of festival delights, Am not allow'd to spend the perquisites? He's but a short remove from being mad, Who at a time of jubilee is sad, And, like a griping usurer, does spare His money to be squander'd by his heir; Flutter'd away in liveries and in coaches, And washy sorts of feminine debauches. As for my part, whate'er the world may think, I'll bid adieu to gravity, and drink; And, though I can't put off a woful mien, Will be all mirth and cheerfulness within: As, in despight of a censorious race, I most incontinently suck my face. What mighty projects does not he design, Whose stomach flows, and brain turns round with wine? Wine, powerful wine, can thaw the frozen cit, And fashion him to humour and to wit; Makes even Somers to disclose his art By racking every secret from his heart, As he flings off the statesman's sly disguise, To name the cuckold's wife with whom he lies.[5]