BALLAD. (Crown me Bacchus, mighty god)

Crown me Bacchus, mighty god, The victory is thine, Cupid's bow yields to thy rod, And love submits to wine:

Love, the dream of idle boys, That makes the sage an ass, Love cannot vie with those sweet joys That crown the sparkling glass.

To plunge in care let lovers whine, Such fools who will be may, Good fellows glass in hand combine To drive pale care away:

With grief of heart, how many a boy Goes mad to please some lass! We too go mad, but 'tis with joy, Fired by the sparkling glass.

How many dangle on a tree Who buckle to love's tether, True to our honest purpose we Hang too, but 'tis together:

The lover numbers by his sighs The moments as they pass, We count them in a way more wise, By putting round the glass.

See in his cage the lover sing, Wife, children, squall sonorus, We make the air and glasses ring, While singing freedom's chorus:

No never shall presumptuous love The joys of wine surpass, Worn out by bickerings, even Jove Seeks Bacchus and his glass.