f love,
At rich repasts an ever welcome guest;
But O ----, too long you stay,
Already young Amyntor, brisk and gay,
His lovely Doris o'er the plain pursues:
The sparkling juice at Sylvan nymphs command
Richly distils from their ambrosial hand,
And old Silenus copiously bedews.

V.

Hence, ye profane,
I hate ye all, fly, quit the field,
My ready soul gives way
To those gay movements, this important day
Inspires, so to the conq'ror willing captives yield.
Come, faithful followers of Bacchus' train,
(Bacchus, most lovely of the gods)
Enter these bless'd abodes.
On high his verdant banners rear,
And quick the festival prepare.
Reach me my lute, a proper air
The chords shall sound; the trembling chords obey,
And join to celebrate this glorious day.

VI.

But 'midst the transports of a pleasing rage
Let's banish ever hence,
By a blind vapour rais'd, and vain pretence,
Those loud seditious clamours that engage
Only inhuman, brutish souls,
By barb'rous Scythians only understood,
Who cruelly their flowing bowls
At banquets intermix with streams of blood.
Dreadful, preposterous, merriment!
Our hands all gayly innocent,
Ought ne'er in such confusion bear a part,
Polluted with a savage Centaur's mortal dart.

VII.

From this sweet innocent repast,
(Too exquisite, alas! to last)
Let's ever banish the rude din of arms,
Frightful Bellona, and her dread alarms.
The dire confusions of pernicious war,
The satyrs, fauns, and Bacchus, all abhor.
Curs'd be those sanguinary mortals, who
Of reeking blood with crimson tides
The sacred mysteries imbrue
Of our great god who over peace presides.

VIII.

But if I must wage war,
If so necessity commands,
Follow, my friends, advance your hands,
Let us commence the pleasing jar.
With wreaths of ivy be our temples bound,
Hark! to arms, to arms, they sound,
Th' alarm to battle calls,
Lend me your formidable Thyrse, ye Bacchanals.
Double your strokes. Bold----bolder yet,
'Tis done-------- How many rivals conquer'd lie?
How many hardy combatants submit?
O son of Jupiter, thy deity,
And sovereign power, we own, and aid divine;
Nothing but heaps of jolly topers slain
I see extended on the plain,
Floating in ruddy streams of reeking wine.

IX.

Io victoria to our king,
To Bacchus songs of triumph let us sing;