(In no small danger then he was),
The mighty Rhoecus thou didst piss upon,
And of that lion mad'st an ass.
'Tis true, thy talent is not war, but mirth;
The fiddle, not the trumpet, thine;
Yet didst thou bravely lay about thee then,
Great Moderator, God of Wine.
And when to Hell in triumph thou didst ride
30O'er Cerberus thou didst prevail,
The silly cur, thee for his Master own'd,