Sweet Chloe advised me, in accents divine;
The joy of the bowl to surrender;
Nor lose in the turbid excesses of wine;
Delights more ecstatic and tender.
She bade me no longer in vineyards to bask
Or stagger at orgies, the dupe of a flask,
For the sign of sots, but the scent of the cask
And a bubble, the bliss of the bottle.
To a soul that's exhausted, or sterile, or dry.
The juice of the grape may be wanted.
But mind is revived by a love-beaming eye
And with fancy gay flow'rets enchanted.
Oh, who but the owl would a garland entwine
Of Bacchus' ivy, and myrtle resign?
Yield the odours of love for the vapours of wine,
And Chloe's kind kiss for a bottle.