"Fondling forbear, ’tis Heresy to think There is a Mistress equal to thy Drink; Or if in love with any, ’t must be rather With that plump Girl that does call Bacchus Father. Thou mayst out-look, arm’d with her warm embrace, Ten thousand Volleys shot from Woman’s Face, Who wou’d withstand without this Aid Divine Ten thousand times as many Tears of thine; As many Sighs and Prayers would be her sport, Exalted she so long maintains her Fort. But when Diviner Sack hath fir’d thy Blood, Creating Flames which cannot be withstood; To which is added Confidence as great As his, that aim’d at Jove’s Celestial Seat; Boldly march on, not granting her the leisure Of Parly; ’tis the Speed augments the Pleasure. If she cry out, with Kisses stop her Breath; She cannot wish to die a better Death. Tell her the pleasant passages between The God of War and Love’s more gentle Queen. When feeble Vulcan came, and in a fear Lest they wou’d not continue longer there, He chain’d ’em to the sport, with an intent To keep such Lovers for a Precedent; Glad to behold a tempting pleasure that His weak Endeavours never could create. Then stroke her Breasts those Mountains of Delight, Whose very Touch would fire an Anchorite. Next let thy wanton Palm a little stray, And dip thy Fingers in the Milky Way: Thus having raiz’d her, gently let her fall, Love’s Trumpets sound, Now Mortal have at all. A happy end thus made of all your sport, Lead her where every Lover shou’d resort, Where Madam Sack’s enthron’d, the tempting’st Lass That e’er was seated in a Venice Glass. Last, that this sense of Pleasure may remain, Cast away Thought and fall to Drink again. Drink off the Glasses, swallow every Bowl, And pity him that sighs away his Soul For that poor trifle Woman, who is mine With one small Gallon of Immortal Wine. To get a Mistress Drinking is the knack; Love’s grand existence is Almighty Sack."