Classic Poem

Darknes, & Stars i' th' mid day! they invite
Our active fancies to beleeve it night:
For Tavernes need no Sunne, but for a Signe,
Where rich Tobacco, and quick tapers shine;
And royall, witty Sacke, the Poets soule,
With brighter Suns then he doth guild the bowl;
As though the Pot, and Poet did agree,
Sack should to both Illuminator be.
That artificiall Cloud with it's curl'd brow,
Tels us 'tis late; and that blew space below
Is fir'd with many Stars; Marke, how they breake
In silent glaunces o're the hills, and speake
The Evening to the Plaines; where shot from far,
They meet in dumbe salutes, as one great Star.
The roome (me thinks) growes darker; & the aire
Contracts a sadder colour, and lesse faire:
Or is't the Drawers skill, hath he no Arts
To blind us so, we cann't know pints from quarts?
No, no, 'tis night; looke where the jolly Clowne
Musters his bleating heard, and quits the Downe.
Harke! how his rude pipe frets the quiet aire,
Whilst ev'ry Hill proclaimes Lycoris faire.
Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch, and sleep,
Free from all cares; but thy wench, pipe & sheep.
But see the Moone is up; view where she stands
Centinell o're the doore, drawn by the hands
Of some base Painter, that for gaine hath made
Her face the Landmarke to the tipling trade.
This Cup to her, that to Endymion give;
'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live:
Choake may the Painter! and his Boxe disclose
No other Colours then his fiery Nose;
And may we no more of his pencill see,
Then two Churchwardens, and Mortalitie.
Should we goe now a wandring, we should meet
With Catchpoles, whores, & Carts in ev'ry street:
Now when each narrow lane, each nooke & Cave,
Signe posts, & shop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave,
When riotous sinfull plush, and tell-tale spurs
Walk Fleet street, & the Strand, when the soft stirs
Of bawdy, ruffled Silks, turne night to day;
And the lowd whip, and Coach scolds all the way;
When lust of all sorts, and each itchie bloud
From the Tower-wharfe to Cymbelyne, and Lud,
Hunts for a Mate, and the tyr'd footman reeles
Twixt chaire-men, torches, & the hackny wheels:
Come, take the other dish; it is to him
That made his horse a Senatour: Each brim
Looke big as mine; The gallant, jolly Beast
Of all the Herd (you'le say) was not the least.
Now crown the second bowle, rich as his worth,
He drinke it to; he! that like fire broke forth
Into the Senates face, crost Rubicon,
And the States pillars, with their Lawes thereon:
And made the dull gray beards, & furr'd gowns fly
Into Brundusium to consult, and lye:
This to brave Sylla ! why should it be sed,
We drinke more to the living, then the dead?
Flatt'rers, and fooles doe use it: Let us laugh
At our owne honest mirth; for they that quaffe
To honour others, doe like those that sent
Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent:
Drink deep; this Cup be pregnant; & the wine
Spirit of wit to make us all divine,
That big with Sack, and mirth we may retyre
Possessours of more soules, and nobler fire;
And by the influxe of this painted Skie,
And labour'd formes, to higher matters flye;
So, if a Nap shall take us, we shall all,
After full Cups have dreames Poeticall.

Lets laugh now, and the prest grape drinke,
Till the drowsie Day-Starre winke;
And in our merry, mad mirth run
Faster, and further then the Sun;
And let none his Cup forsake,
Till that Starre againe doth wake;
So we men below shall move
Equally with the gods above.