Song in Praise of Woman

My temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine, And barter all joy for a goblet of wine. In search of a Venus no longer I'll run, But stop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.

Yet why this resolve to relinquish the fair? 'Tis a folly with spirits, like mine, to despair. And what mighty charms can be found in a glass, If not fill'd to the health of a favourite lass?

'Tis woman, whose charms every rapture impart, And lend a new spring to the pulse of the heart. The miser himself (so supreme is her sway) Grows convert to love, and resigns her his key.

At the sound of her voice Sorrow lifts up her head, And Poverty listens well-pleas'd from her shed; Whilst Age, in half-extasy hobbling along, Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her song.

Then bring me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard, The largest, and deepest, that stands on the board: I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair, 'Tis the thirst of a lover, and pledge me who dare.