On a Pint of Sack

Old Poets Hipocrin admire,

And pray to water to inspire

Their wit and Muse with heav'nly fire;

Had they this heav'nly fountain seen,

Sacke both their well and Muse had beene,

And this pint-pot their Hipocrin.

Had they truly discoverd it

They had like me thought it unfit

To pray to water for their wit,

And had ador'd 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 Nector, 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 our wit,

That we should prayse the Cabonet,

And drink a health to this divine

And bounteous pallace of our wine;

Die he with thirst that doth repine.