Where be the Graces, where be those fayre Three? 
    In any hand they may not absent bee: 
          They to the Gods are deare,
          And they can humbly 20
          Teach vs, our Selues to beare,
          And doe things comely: 
    They, and the Muses, rise both from one Stem,
    They grace the Muses, and the Muses them.

    Bring forth your Flaggons (fill’d with sparkling Wine)
    Whereon swolne BACCHVS, crowned with a Vine,
          Is grauen, and fill out,
          It well bestowing,
          To eu’ry Man about,
          In Goblets flowing:  30
    Let not a Man drinke, but in Draughts profound;
    To our God PHOEBVS let the Health goe Round.

    Let your Iests flye at large; yet therewithall
    See they be Salt, but yet not mix’d with Gall: 
          Not tending to disgrace,
          But fayrely giuen,
          Becomming well the place,
          Modest, and euen;
    That they with tickling Pleasure may prouoke
    Laughter in him, on whom the Iest is broke. 40

    Or if the deeds of HEROES ye rehearse,
    Let them be sung in so well-ord’red Verse,
          That each word haue his weight,
          Yet runne with pleasure;
          Holding one stately height,
          In so braue measure,
    That they may make the stiffest Storme seeme weake,
    And dampe IOVES Thunder, when it lowd’st doth speake.

    And if yee list to exercise your Vayne,
    Or in the Sock, or in the Buskin’d Strayne, 50
          Let Art and Nature goe
          One with the other;
          Yet so, that Art may show
          Nature her Mother;
    The thick-brayn’d Audience liuely to awake,
    Till with shrill Claps the Theater doe shake.

    Sing Hymnes to BACCHVS then, with hands vprear’d,
    Offer to IOVE, who most is to be fear’d;
          From him the Muse we haue,
          From him proceedeth 60
          More then we dare to craue;
          ’Tis he that feedeth
    Them, whom the World would starue; then let the Lyre
    Sound, whilst his Altars endlesse flames expire.

TO CVPID

    Maydens, why spare ye? 
    Or whether not dare ye
      Correct the blind Shooter? 
    Because wanton VENVS,
    So oft that doth paine vs,
      Is her Sonnes Tutor.

    Now in the Spring,
    He proueth his Wing,
      The Field is his Bower,
    And as the small Bee, 10
    About flyeth hee,
      From Flower to Flower.

    And wantonly roues,
    Abroad in the Groues,
      And in the Ayre houers,
    Which when it him deweth,
    His Fethers he meweth,
      In sighes of true Louers.