Old Poets Hipocrin admire, 
And pray to water to inspire 
Their wit and Muse with heav'nly fire; 
Had they this heav'nly fountain seen, 
Sacke both their well and Muse had beene, 
And this pint-pot their Hipocrin.

Had they truly discoverd it
They had like me thought it unfit
To pray to water for their wit,
And had ador'd Sack as divine,
And made a Poet God of Wine,
And this pint-pot had been a shrine.

Sack unto them had been in stead
Of Nector, and their heav'nly bread,
And ev'ry boy a Ganimed;
Or had they made a God of it,
Or stil'd it patron of their wit,
This pot had been a temple fit.

Well then Companions is't not fit,
Since to this Jemme we ow our wit,
That we should prayse the Cabonet,
And drink a health to this divine
And bounteous pallace of our wine;
Die he with thirst that doth repine.