Jove's a God of ten thousand

Jove's a God of ten thousand, the monarch I know, Loves his bottle, girl, song, and a jest, Has a monst'rous regard for choice spirits below, And is charm'd when his creatures are blest.

But he's vex'd when a fool takes it into his head, That he's lost if he meddles with pleasure; And thinks; too, the fellow confounded ill bred, To refuse when he offers the treasure.

When a zealot has turn'd up the white of his eyes, With long phiz, and a puritan strain; I have seen the God laugh; and in fun from the skies, Make up mouths at the blockhead again.

Then push round the bottle, let each give his song, Wit, humour, and friendship attend us, And while for enjoyment our passions are strong, Let's ask not his Godship to mend us.

Thus we'll revel 'till morning peeps into our glass, Then to scenes of new rapture remove, To embrace with devotion a wife or a lass, And be blest on the bosom of love.