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Bacchus is a pow'r divine,
For he no sooner fills my head
With mighty wine,
But all my cares resign,
And droop, then sink down dead.
Then the pleasing thoughts begin,
And I in riches flow,
At least I fancy so.
And without thought of want I sign,
Stretch'd on the earth, my head all around
With flowers weav'd into a garland crown'd.
Then I begin to live,
And scorn what all the world can show or give.
Let the brave fools that fondly think
Of honour, and delight,
To make a noise and fight
Go seek out war, whilst I seek peace and drink.
Then fill my glass, fill it high,
Some perhaps think it fit to fall and die,
But when the bottles rang'd to make war with me,
The fighting fool shall see, when I am sunk,
The diff'rence to lie dead, and lie dead drunk.
