Then Bacchus appears, with a cup in his hand,
Says, “Drink, and you’ll drown ev’ry care;
But mind, ere you taste, I’ll a promise demand,
That you fly from the lips of the fair.”
O, sad the dilemma! pray, what must I do?
With Bacchus I never can part:
Ah! dear Little God, if neglected by you,
It will rend ev’ry string of my heart.
O why such a pother? I’ve found out a way,
I’ll bind myself fast by an oath,