That nectar which the blessed vines produce,
The height of all our joy, and wishes here.
Nor those sweet entertainments gay,
When by the glass inspir’d so many kings,
We tope, and speak, and do heroic things,
And count ourselves more happy far than they.
These days of ours the fatal sisters spin,
To consecrate to love and wine,
Let’s now, e’er ’tis too late begin.
Alas! without these pow’rs divine