Is  cast  on  me.     Captain,  the  hour  is  come,
You  shall  no  more  drink  ale,  of  which  one  draught
Makes  cowards,  and  spoils  valour  ;  nor  take  off
Your  moderate  quai't-glass.     I  intend  to  have
A  musket  for  you,  or  glass  cannon,  with
A  most  capacious  barrel,  which  we'll  charge
And  discharge  wiUi  the  rich  valiant  grape
Of  my  uncle's  cellar  ;  every  charge  shall  fire
The  glass,  and  bum  itself  i'  th'  filling,  and  look
Like  a  piece  going  off.
Quart.  I  shall  be  glad
To  give  thanks  for  you,  sir,  in  pottle  draughts,
And  shall  love  Scotch-coal  for  this  wreck  the  better
As  long  as  I  know  fuel.
Plot.  Then  my  poet
No  longer  shall  write  catches,  or  thin  sonnets.
Nor  preach  in  verse  as  if  he  were  subom'd
By  him  that  wrote  the  Whip,  to  pen  lean  acts,
And  so  to  overthrow  the  8tage«for  want
Of  salt  or  wit.    Nor  shall  he  need  torment
Or  persecute  his  muse  ;  but  I  will  bo
His  god  of  wine  t'inspire  him.     He  shall  no  more
Converse  with  the  five-yard  butler;  who,  like

thunder.
Can  turn  beer  with  his  voice,  and  roar  it  sour  :
But  shall  come  forth  a  Sophocles  and  write
Things  for  the  buskin.    Instead  of  Pegasus,
To  strike  a  spring  with's  hoof,  we'll  have  a  steel
Which  shall  but  touch  a  butt,  and  straight  shall
A  purer,  higher,  wealthier  Helicon.  [flow

Sale.  Frank,  thou  shalt  be  my  Phcebus.  My  next
Shall  be  thy  uncle's  tragedy,  or  the  Life  [poem
And  Death  of  two  Rich  Merchants.
Plot.  Gentlemen,
And  now  i'  faith  what  think  you  of  the  fish  !

Ware.  Why  as  we  ought,  sir,  strangely.
Bright.  But  d'you  think  it  is  a  very  fish  ?

Sea,  Yes.
New.  'Tis  a  num.
