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Vulcan,
contrive me such a cup
As Nestor used of old;
Show
all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with
gold.
Make it so large that, filled with sack
Up to the swelling brim,
Vast toasts on the delicious
lake
Like ships at sea may swim.
Engrave not
battle on its cheek:
With war I've nought to do;
I'm none of those that took Maastricht,
Nor Yarmouth
leaguer knew.
Let it no name of planets tell,
Fixed stars, or constellations;
For I am no Sir
Sidrophel,
Nor none of his relations.
But
carve theron a spreading vine,
Then add two lovely
boys;
Their limbs in amorous folds intwine,
The
type of future joys.
Cupid and Bacchus my saints
are,
May drink and love still reign,
With wine I
wash away my cares,
And then to cunt again.
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