Anacreontick

Since it is decreed by Fate, Friends must sever, soon or late; Darkling to their Lodgings roam; Stagger to their longest Home; Of all Deities the best, Bacchus! hear a Son's Request!

Let me metamorphos'd be, Into some wide-spreading Tree; In some pleasant flow'ry Glade, With my Branches form a Shade. Lovers there may bless my Boughs; Topers, merrily carouze.

When, mature and bulky grown, Thoughtless Swains shall hew me down; May the Carver, friendly Soul! Form of me a curious Bowl.

On the large capacious Round, Somewhere let my Bust be found: That, when once the jovial Crew Shall my honest Visage view; It may kindle fresh Desire, And a mighty Goût inspire.

Near it, be some Foliage strewn; Foliage of the Vine alone. Let some little Bacchus join, Such as on a Country Sign.

But, with all this Art and Care, Be it large, as well as fair: Else, however neat, the Bowl Ne'er can please the thirsty Soul.

Let it, (if it can be so) Hold more, than it seems to do. Let it so capacious be, That it seem to hold a Sea! Thus may Bacchus hence remain Tyrant of the lesser Main.

Use the Refuse, I enjoin, For the Service of the Vine. Let my Boughs support the Tree, In its weakly Insancy. What remains, may be of Use To contain th' unripen'd Juice: Forming Butts, and all that may Profit, in the Toping way.

Thus may I be lov'd again By the Care deceiving Train. 'Tis my Study, Day and Night, 'Tis my only Heart's Delight, How I may of Service be To my Dear Fraternity. Whilst I live—I'll do my best: Bacchus grant, O grant the rest!—