That poets us’d to sing in merry lays,
And with sweet garlands crown’d, promiscuous rang’d,
To thy rich wines, great Bacchus, chaunt thy praise.
With these gay chorists, when my fates were kind,
Free, unreserv’d, to thee, immortal power!
(The pleasing object fresh salutes my mind)
Without disguise a part I often bore.
[1.] Sermo pedestris.
[2.] Trist. v. 3.