BACCHUS

Wherefore didst thou call me, Vertumnus? hast any drink to give me? One of you hold my Asle while I light: walk him up and down the hall, till I talk a word or two. Why, Summer, Summer, how wouldst do, but for rain? What is a fair house without water coming to it? Let me see how a smith can work, if he have not his trough standing by him. What sets and edge on a knife? the grindstone alone? no, the moist element poured upon ̄ it, which grinds out all gaps, sets a point upon it, & scowres it as bright as the firmament. So, I tell thee, give a soldier wine before he goes to battle, it grinds out all gaps, it makes him forget all scars and wounds, and fight in the thickest of his enemies, as though he were but at foils, amongst his fellows. Give a scholar wine, going to his book, or being about to invent, it sets a new point on his wit, it glazeth it, it scowres it, it gives him acumen. Plato says, vinum esse fomitem que ̄ dam, et incit abi lem ingenii virtutisque. Aristotle says, Nullam est magnam scientiam absque mixtura dementiae. There is no excellent knowledge without mixture of madness. And what makes a man more mad in the head then wine? Qui be vult poyein, debet axtá pinyen, he that will do well, must drink well. Prome, prome, potum prome: Ho butler, a fresh pot. Nunc est bibe ̄ dum, nunc pede libero terra pulsanda: a pox on him that leaves his drink be hind him; heigh Rendouow. A fiddlestick, never tell me I am full of words. Foecundi calices, quem non fecere desertum: aut epi, aut abi, either take your drink, or you are and infidel. Hearest, thou dow-belly, because thou talkest, and talkest, & darest not drink to me a black Jack, wilt thou give me leave, to broach this little kilderkin of my corpse, against thy back? I know thou art but a mycher, & darest not stand me. A voni, mou ̄ sieur Winter, a frolic vpsy freeze, cross, ho, super nagulum ̄ . Knocks the Jack upon his thumb. What, give me the disgrace? Go to, I say, I am no Pope, to pardon ̄ any man. Ran, ran, tarra, cold beer makes good blood. S. George for Englam ̄ worser: somewhat is better then nothing. Let me see, hast thou done me justice? why so: thou art a king, though there were no more kings in the cards but the knave. Summer, wilt thou have a demy culvering, that shall cry husty tusty, and make thy cup fly fine meal in the Element? This Pupillonian in the fools coat, shall have a cast of martins, & a whiff. To the health of Captain Rinocerotry: look to it, let him have weight and measure. Fool, do not refuse your moist sustenance; come, come, dogs head in the pot, do what you are born to. Crouch, crouch on your knees, fool, when you pledge God Bacchus. Ho, well shot, a tutcher, a tutcher: for quaffing Toy does pass, in cup, in can, or glass. Now on my honour, Sim Summer, thou art a bade member, a Dunse, a mongrel, to discredit so worshipful and art after this order. Thou hast cursed me, and I will bless thee: Never cup of Nipitaty in London, come near thy niggardly habitation. I beseech the gods of good fellowship, thou mayest fallen into a consumption with drinking small beer. Every day mayest thou eat fish, and let it stick in the amid of thy maw, for want of a cup of wine to swim away in. Venison be Vene num to thee: & may that Vintner have the plague in his house, that sells thee a drop of claret to kill the poison of it. As many wounds mayest thou have, as Casar had in the Senate house, and get no white wine to wash them with: And to conclude, pine away in melancholy and sorrow, before thou hast the fourth partly of a dram of my Juice to cheer up thy spirits. Nay soft, brother Summer, back with that foot, here is a snuff in the bottom of the Jack, enough to light a man to bed withal, we'll leave no flocks behind us what soever we do. Since we must needs go, let's go merrily. Farewell, sir Robert Tosspot: sing amain, Mounsieur Myngo, whilst I mount up my Ass. Vinum quasivenenum, wine is poison to a sick body; a sick body is no found body; Ergo, wine is a pure thing, & is poy son to all corruption. Try-lill, the hu ̄ ters hoop to you: isle stand to it, Alexander was a brave man, and yet and arrant drunkard. Our vintage, was a vintage, for it did not work upon the advantage, it came in the vanguard of Summer, & winds and storms met it by the way, and made it cry, Alas and welladay. Faith, shall I tell you no lie? Because you are my cou ̄ try man, & so forth, & a good fellow, is a good fellow, though he have never a penny in his purse: We had but even pot luck, a little to moisten our lips, and no more. That same Solemnizing, is a Pa gan, and a Proselyte, he shinde so bright all summer, that he burned more grapes, then his beams were worth, were every beam as big as a weavers beam. A fabis abstinendum: faith, he should have abstained: for what is flesh & blood without his liquour? Rise up Sir Robert Tospot.