"Poems - 1725" by John Glanvill

"Near the Banks of a Stream, in the Gloom of a Grove"

Near the Banks of a Stream, in the Gloom of a Grove,
While the Waves toss below, and the Winds press above,
As I sit all alone full of Iris and Love;
I'm mov'd with the Scene to find nothing at Rest,
And think on the Tempest that urges my Breast.

Then mounting with Passion, and sinking with Care,
My Blood is the River, my Breath is the Air;
But when I the Rage and the Tumult compare,
I sigh to find nothing so little at Rest,
As I with the Tempest that urges my Breast.

But ah! I cry, ah! the bewitching dear Maid
That raises this Storm, were she too in this Shade,
The Commotion to see, and the Tumult to aid,
The Tempest would then rise so high in my Breast,
That the Winds and the Waves would seem quite at Rest.

And yet 'twere not hard a sweet Calm to restore;
A little Rain falls, and the Storm passes o'er,
And she has a Lap, and Love has a Show'r,
That fairly and kindly would quiet my Breast,
And lay the fierce Tempest with Pleasure to Rest.

But oh! how I should of the Quiet complain,
A little too long should the Calm but remain!
How wish for, and want my dear Tempest again!
Too often it could not return to my Breast,
When still it should rise to be so laid to Rest.

"The Drinker's Plea"

Since Nature Mankind for Society fram'd,
He against Nature sins who of Drinking's asham'd.
To be nice were of Manhood myself to divest;
'Tis not he who will drink, but who won't is the Beast.
Drink's the Joy of our Kind, Man's distinguishing Sin
We as Animals love, but we drink as we're Men;
'Tis the sober dull Brute does for Thirst only drink,
The Brute that can't laugh, can't be merry, nor think.

How flat without this is our humane Converse?
How insipid the Tast, if not heightned with Tierce?
How emptily grave, and how heavily gay,
If we gossip at Night, or are busy by Day?
Let the Fools then of Gallantry, Traffick, and News,
The Ruelle, th' Exchange, and the Coffee-house choose.
Who the Devil would be to a Virtue a Slave,
Only fit for the Statesman, the Fop, or the Knave?

Let's a League against all dead Sobriety join,
That wretched Estate of Mistrust and Design;
Where Outside, and Forms dear Freedom exclude,
And we dare not be pleasant for Fear we prove rude.
Where Int'rest a Mask, and Fear's a Disguise,
And makes Men unhappy to render them wise.
The Drunkard secure on no Danger need think;
There's of Prudence no Use, where there's Friendship and Drink.

Drink, Drink then about, while, all Interest drown'd,
Mirth, Humor, and Wit with the Cup shall sail round.
We'll laugh, and we'll sing, be bold, and sincere,
And removing all Danger we'll banish all Fear;
We'll mock at the Cautious, and scorn all Disguise,
Begin to be frolick, as we cease to be wise,
Till void of Reserves, our jolly free Souls
Prove clear as our Liquor, and large as our Bowls.