Hang up all the poor hop-drinkers,
Cries old Sim, the king of skinkers;
He the life of life abuses
That sits watering with the Muses.
Those dull girls no good can mean us;
Wine—it is the milk of Venus,
And the poet’s horse accounted:
Ply it, and you all are mounted.
’Tis the true Phœbian liquor,
Cheers the brains, makes wit the quicker;