Anacreontic. "The Wisest Men Are Fools In Wine."

The wisest men are fools in wine,
Experience makes us think:
Its magic spells are so divine,
We reason--yet we drink!

How short's the longest life of man,
How soon its brightest laurels fade--
Then, as our life is but a span,
Let all its hours be joyous made.

Wine o'er the ardent restless mind
Entwines its poppy chain;
A solace, then, the wretched find.
In fictions of the brain.

Oh! as the charmed glass we sip,
We conquer care and pain:
It woos like woman's dewy lip,

To kiss--and come again!

Thomas Gent

Thomas Gent was an 18th-century English writer, printer, and bookseller, known predominantly for his historical works. Despite facing numerous financial difficulties, his passion for printing never waned, leading him to chronicle his experiences and the events of his time with a distinct personal touch. His works offer a vivid depiction of 18th-century English life, ensuring his place in literary history.

Thomas Gent

The Runaway.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Sonnet

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

To My Spaniel Fanny.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

To ------.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

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Anacreontic

Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear,
While yonder Censor mounts the chair:
His form erect, his stately pace,
His huge, white wig, his solemn face,
His scowling brows, his ken severe,
His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer,
Some high Philosopher declare:
Hush! let us hear him from the chair:

'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth;
How ill-beseeming sons of earth!
Know ye not well the fate of man?
That death is certain, life a span?
That merriment soon sinks in sorrow,
Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow?
Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice,
That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'

Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine,
Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.
        Since mortals must die,
        Since life's but a span,
       ...

Thomas Oldham

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode L.

^[1]


When wine I quaff, before my eyes
Dreams of poetic glory rise;^[2]
And freshened by the goblet's dews,
My soul invokes the heavenly Muse,
When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er;
I think of doubts and fears no more;
But scatter to the railing wind
Each gloomy phantom of the mind.
When I drink wine, the ethereal boy,
Bacchus himself, partakes my joy;
And while we dance through vernal bowers,
Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers,
In wine he makes my senses swim,
Till the gale breathes of naught but him!

    Again I drink,--and, lo, there seems
A calmer light to fill my dreams;
The lately ruffled wreath I spread
With steadier hand around my head;
Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest
The life of...

Thomas Moore

A Song Of Other Days

As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet
Breathes soft the Alpine rose,
So through life's desert springing sweet
The flower of friendship grows;
And as where'er the roses grow
Some rain or dew descends,
'T is nature's law that wine should flow
To wet the lips of friends.
Then once again, before we part,
My empty glass shall ring;
And he that has the warmest heart
Shall loudest laugh and sing.

They say we were not born to eat;
But gray-haired sages think
It means, Be moderate in your meat,
And partly live to drink.
For baser tribes the rivers flow
That know not wine or song;
Man wants but little drink below,
But wants that little strong.
Then once again, etc.

If one bright drop is like the gem
That decks a monarch's crown,

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Love And Wine.

'Tis wine that cheers the soul of man,
With subtle and seductive flow;
It warms the heart, as naught else can,
And banishes regret, and woe.

It keeps alive the flick'ring flame,
Which strives to burn with feeble force
Within the heart, so dull and tame,
But still of life, the present source.

It warms up this fount of life,
And sends life's fluid here and there;
And nerves and brain, in gladsome strife,
Forget their dull and dark despair.

And what is love, if 'tis not wine,
Refin'd, distill'd from grossness, tho',
More potent than the juice of vine,
And bringing greater joy, and woe?

Does it not, too, refresh, revive,
And oft intoxicate the brain,
And make the being all alive
With keenest joy, or keenest pain?

A...

Thomas Frederick Young

Anacreontic

Why must Poets, when they sing,
Drink of the Castalian spring?
Sure 'tis chilling to the brain;
Witness many a modern strain:
Poets! would ye sing with fire,
Wine, not water, must inspire.
Come, then, pour thy purple stream,
Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme.
How within thy crystal frame
Does the rosy nectar flame!
Not so beauteous on the vine
Did the clustering rubies shine,
When the potent God of day
Fill'd them with his ripening ray;
When with proudness and delight
Bacchus view'd the charming sight.
Still it keeps Apollo's fires;
Still the vintage-God admires.
Hail sweet antidote of wo!
Chiefest blessing mortals know!
Nay, the mighty powers divine
Own the magic force of wine.
Wearied with the world's affairs,
Jove himself, t...

Thomas Oldham

Anacreontic Verse.

Brisk methinks I am, and fine
When I drink my cap'ring wine:
Then to love I do incline,
When I drink my wanton wine:
And I wish all maidens mine,
When I drink my sprightly wine:
Well I sup and well I dine,
When I drink my frolic wine;
But I languish, lower, and pine,
When I want my fragrant wine.

Robert Herrick