Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, Away with old Hock and madeira, Too earthly ye are for my sport;
Fill for me a brimming bowl And in it let me drown my soul: But put therein some drug, designed
Where's the Poet? show him! show him, Muses nine! that I may know him. 'Tis the man who with a man
Give me women, wine, and snuff Until I cry out "hold, enough!" You may do so sans objection
Part 1 Upon a time, before the faery broods Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too,
1. One morn before me were three figures seen, I With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
1. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too,
This pleasant tale is like a little copse: The honied lines do freshly interlace, To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
All gentle folks who owe a grudge To any living thing Open your ears and stay your t[r]udge
I. Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy To those who woo her with too slavish knees,