That, whichever thing I shew,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain’d hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed. 
Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus’ black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that mak’st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimed lovers take
’Gainst women:  thou thy siege dost lay
Much too in the female way,
While thou suck’st the lab’ring breath
Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
That our worst foes cannot find us,
And ill fortune, that would thwart us,
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
While each man, thro’ thy height’ning steam,
Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.

  Thou through such a mist dost shew us,

That our best friends do not know us,
And, for those allowed features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken’st us to fell Chimeras,
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first lov’d a cloud, Ixion.

  Bacchus we know, and we allow

His tipsy rites.  But what art thou,
That but by reflex can’st shew
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle? 
Some few vapours thou may’st raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reigns and nobler heart
Can’st nor life nor heat impart.

            Brother of Bacchus, later born,
          The old world was sure forlorn,
          Wanting thee, that aidest more
          The god’s victories than before
          All his panthers, and the brawls
          Of his piping Bacchanals. 
          These, as stale, we disallow,
          Or judge of thee meant; only thou
          His true Indian conquest art;
          And, for ivy round his dart,
          The reformed god now weaves
          A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

            Scent to match thy rich perfume
          Chemic art did ne’er presume
          Through her quaint alembic strain,
          None so sov’reign to the brain. 
          Nature, that did in thee excel,
          Fram’d again no second smell. 
          Roses, violets, but toys
          For the smaller sort of boys,
          Or for greener damsels meant;
          Thou art the only manly scent.

  Stinking’st of the stinking kind,

Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foyson,
Breeds no such prodigious poison,
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite------