BALLAD. (What though from Venus Cupid sprung)

What though from Venus Cupid sprung, No attribute divine, Whate'er the bawling bards have sung, Had he, his bow till Bacchus strung, And dipp'd his darts in wine:

Till old Silenus plung'd the boy In nectar from the vine, Then love, that was before a toy, Became the source of mortal joy; The urchin shook his dewy wings, And careless levelled clowns and kings, Such power has mighty wine.

When Theseus on the naked shore Fair Ariadne left, D'ye think she did her fate deplore, Or her fine locks or bosom tore, Like one of hope bereft:

Not she indeed, her fleeting love From mortal turns divine, And as gay Bacchus' tigers move, His car ascends amidst a grove Of vines, surrounded by a throng, Who lead the jolly pair along, Almost half gone with wine.

Ma'am Helen lov'd the Phrygian boy, He thought her all his own, But hotest love will soonest cloy, He ne'er had brought her safe to Troy But for the wife of Thone.

She, merry gossip, mixed a cup Of tipple, right divine; To keep love's flagging spirits up, And Helen drank it every sup; This liquor is, 'mongst learned elves, Nepenthe call'd, but, 'twixt ourselves, 'Twas nothing more than wine.

Of Lethe and its flowery brink Let musty poets prate, Where thirsty souls are said to drink, That never they again may think Upon their former state.

What is there in this soulless lot, I pray you so divine? Grief finds the palace and the cot, Which for a time were well forgot; Come here then, in our lethe share, The true oblivion of your care Is only found in wine.