Vulcan contrive me such a Cup, 
As Nestor us'd of old;
Shew all thy skill to trim it up, 
Damask it round with Gold.

Make it so large, that fill'd with Sack,
Up to the swelling brim,
Vast Toasts, on the delicious Lake,
Like Ships at Sea may swim.

Engrave no Battail on his Cheek,
With War, I've nought to do;
I'm none of those that took Mastrich,
Nor Yarwouth Leager knew.

Let it no name of Planets tell.
Fixt Stars, or Constellations;
For I am no Sir Sydrophell,
Nor none of his Relations.

But carve thereon a spreading Vine,
Then add Two lovely Boys;
Their Limbs in Amorous folds intwine,
The Type of future joys.

Cupid, and Bacchus, my Saints are,
May drink, and Love, still reign,
With Wine, I wash away my cares,
And then to Cunt again.