Classic Poem

ALBIUS
Wake! Our mirth begins to die;
Quicken it with tunes and wine.
Raise your notes; you're out; fie, fie!
This drowsiness is an ill sign.
We banish him the choir of gods,
That droops again:
Then all are men,
For here's not one but nods....
HERMOGENES

Then, in a free and lofty strain,
Our broken tunes we thus repair;
CRISPINUS

And we answer them again,
Running division on the panting air;
BOTH

To celebrate this feast of sense,
As free from scandal as offence.
HERMOGENES

Here is beauty for the eye;
CRISPINUS

For the ear sweet melody;
HERMOGENES

Ambrosiac odours, for the smell;
CRISPINUS

Delicious nectar, for the taste;
BOTH

For the touch, a lady's waist;
Which doth all the rest excel.
(from Poetaster)