If with hot wine we insack us,

Say our name's not Bacchus.

If we taste the weight of a button,

Say we're a glutton.

He who, when he first wrote verses,

Had the graces by his side,

Then at rhymers' evil courses

Shook his thunders far and wide,

(For his great heart rose, and burn'd,

Till his words to thunder turn'd)

He, I say, Menzini, he,

The marvellous and the masterly,

Whom the leaves of Phoebus crown,

Alterable Anacreon,

He shall give me, if I do it,

Gall of the satiric poet,

Gall from out his blackest well,

Shuddering, unescapeable.

But if still, as I ought to do,

I love any wine iced through and through,

If I will have it (and none beside)

Superultrafrostified,

He that reigns in Pindus then,

Visible Phoebus among men,

Filicaia, shall exalt

Me above the starry vault;

While the other swans divine,

Who swim with their proud hearts in wine,
And make their laurel groves resound
With the names of the laurel-crown'd,

All shall sing, till our goblets ring,
Long live Bacchus our glorious King!
Evoè! let them roar away!

Evoè!

Evoè!

Evoè! let the lords of wit

Rise and echo, where they sit,

Where they sit enthroned each,
Arbiters of sovereign speech,

Under the great Tuscan dame,

Who sifts the flower and gives it fame.
Let the shout by Segni be
Registered immortally,

And dispatched by a courier
A monsieur l'Abbé Regnier.

What wine is that I see? Ah,
Bright as a John Dory:
It should be Malvagia,
Trebbia's praise and glory.
It is, i'faith, it is:

Push it nearer, pr'ithee;
And let me, thou fair bliss,
Fill this magnum with thee.
I'faith, it's a good wine,
And much agrees with

Here's a health to thee and thy line,

Prince of Tuscany.

Before I speak of thee, Prince bold and sage, I wash my lips with this illustrious wine, Which, like thyself, came upon this our age,

Breathing a gentle suavity divine.

Hearken, great Cosmo.

Heav'n has promis'd

thee

Here, down on earth, eternity of glory;

And these, my oracular words, thine eyes may see,

Written already in immortal story.

When thou shalt leave us to return to Heav'n, Laden with mighty deeds, and full of years, To thine illustrious planet it is given

To roll around Jupiter, clear, grand, and even, Flushing the brilliant Medicean stars;

And Jupiter himself, glad of thy sight,

Shall shew a more distinguish'd orb, and affabler

delight.

To the sound of the cymbal,

And sound of the crotalus,

Girt with your Nebrides,

Ho, ye Bassarides,

Up, up, and mingle me

Cups of that purple grape,

Which, when ye grapple, ye

Bless Monterappoli.

Then, while I irrigate

These my dry viscera,

For they burn inwardly,

Let my Fauns cleverly

Cool my hot head with their

Garlands of pampanus.

Then to the crash of your Pipes and your kettle-drums,

Let me have sung to me,

Roar'd to me, rung to me,

Catches and love songs