The dusk is heavy with the wine's warm load;Here the long sense of classic measure curesThe spirit weary of its difficult pain;Here the old Bacchic piety endures,Here the sweet legends of the world remain.
Myrtale often smells of wine, but, wise, With eating bay-leaves thinks it to disguise: So nott with water tempers the wine's heate, But covers it. Henceforth if her you meete With red face and swell'd veynes, modestly say, "Sure Myrtale hath drunk o' th' bayes today?"
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