My friends could give me no relief;
No balm could reach my inward grief;
Nothing could ease my tortur'd mind,
Because Lucinda was unkind.

Oft on a flow'ry bank I lay,
And weeping spent the tedious day;
As oft by silver streams I stood,
And with my tears increas'd the flood.

On cypress banks I oft engrav'd
Her name, who had my soul enslav'd,
And oft, to all the echoes round
I would repeat the pleasing sound.

To food and rest a stranger grown,
My body wasted to the bone;
Thought I — this cannot long endure,
It would be best to seek a cure.

I call'd my friends, who brought me wine
Of sparkling colour, taste divine!
Then to the brim we charg'd our glasses,
And drank adieu to all coy lasses.

Scarce had we pass'd six bumpers round
When lo, my wond'rous power I found;
My reason had assum'd its throne,
And all the fumes of love were gone!

Now I, who was so sad of late,
Began to laugh, and sing, and prate;
My cheeks, which had been pale before,
A flush of ruby brightness wore.

My eyes they sparkled with delight,
My mind was gay, my heart was light;
With songs of joy I fill'd the place,
And pleasure triumph'd in my face.

Now could I name the cruel fair
Without or anguish, or despair:
Could tell her ev'ry fault aloud,
Nay, call her jilt, coquette, and proud.

And now Lucinda I despise,
Wine, glorious wine alone I prize;
Wine, that can all our griefs remove,
And cure the raging pain of love.