Unwisely weaves, that takes two webs in hand.
Who ever casts to compass weighty prize,
And thinks to throw out thund'ring words of threat,
Let pour in lavish cups and thrifty bits of meat,
For Bacchus' fruit is friend to Phœbus wise;
And, when with wine the brain begins to sweat,
The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.
Thou kenst not, Percie, how the rhyme should rage;
O if my temples were distain'd with wine,
And girt in garlands of wild ivy twine,