They pray the gods to make their burthen light,
And that their yoke-fellows may never fight:
I praise them, not for giving me a wife,
But saving of my life.
By heav'n redeem'd, I 'scap'd a falling tree,
10And yearly own that strange delivery,
Yearly rejoice, and drink the briskest wine,
Not spill it at their shrine.
Come, my Maecenas, let us drink, and thus
Cherish that life those Pow'rs have given us: