To smile in Bacchus’ ruddy face.
Thou fly’st th’ intoxicating bowl,
Fountain of madness and disease,
Whose wild and absolute controul,
The vanquish’d reason sways.
Thou shun’st the fragrant myrtle groves,
Which the Paphian Venus loves—
Where, while Pan pipes a roundelay,
Th’ unblushing nymphs and satyrs play.
Ah, modest Health, from scenes like these,