Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MR. ALEXANDER BROME; EPODE, by CHARLES COTTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MR. ALEXANDER BROME; EPODE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Now let us drink, and with our nimble feet
Last Line: Extract one mirth to balance all.
Subject(s): Brome, Alexander (1620-1666); Drinks & Drinking; Wine


Now let us drink, and with our nimble feet,
The floor in graceful measures beat;
Never so fit a time for harmless mirth
Upon the sea-girt spot of earth.
The King's returned! Fill Nectar to the brim,
And let Lyaeus proudly swim:
Our joys are full, and uncontrolled flow,
Then let our cups (my Hearts) be so:
Begin the frolic, send the liquor round,
And as our King, our cups be crown'd.
Go, Boy, and pierce the old Falernian wine,
And make us chaplets from the vine.
Range through the drowsy vessels of the cave,
Till we an inundation have,
Spare none of all the store, but ply the task,
Till Bacchus' throne be empty cask;
But let the Must alone, for that we find
Will leave a crapula behind.
Our griefs once made us thirsty, and our joy,
If not allay'd, may now destroy.
Light up the silent tapers, let them shine,
To give complexion to our wine;
Fill each a pipe of the rich Indian fume,
To vapour incense in the room,
That we may in that artificial shade
Drink all a night our selves have made.
No cup shall be discharg'd, whilst round we sit,
Without a smart report of Wit,
Whilst our inventions quicken'd thus, and warm,
Hit all they fly at, but not harm;
For it Wit's mast'ry is, and chiefest art
To tickle all; but make none smart.
Thus shall our draughts, and conversation be,
Equally innocent, and free,
Our loyalty the centre, we the ring,
Drink round, and changes to the King;
Let none avoid, dispute, or dread his cups,
The strength, or quantity he sups:
Our brains of raptures full, and so divine,
Have left no room for fumes of wine;
And though we drink like freemen of the deep,
We'll scorn the frail support of sleep;
For whilst with Cbarles his presence we are blest,
Security shall be our rest.
Anacreon come, and touch thy jolly lyre,
And bring in Horace to the choir:
Mould all our healths in your immortal rhyme,
Who cannot sing, shall drink in time.
We'll be one Harmony, one Mirth, one Voice,
One Love, one Loyalty, one Noise,
Of Wit, and Joy, one Mind, and that as free
As if we all one Man could be.
Drown'd be past sorrows, with our future care,
For (if we know how blest we are)
A knowing Prince at last is wafted home,
That can prevent, as overcome.
Make then our injuries, and harms to be
The Chorus to our jollity,
And from those iron times, past woes recall,
Extract one Mirth to balance all.





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