I.
The utmost Grace the Greeks could shew,
When to the Trojans they grew kind,
Was with their Arms to let 'em go,
And leave their lingring Wives behind.
They beat the Men, and burnt the Town,
Then all the Baggage was their own.
II.
There the kind Deity of Wine
Kiss'd the soft wanton God of Love;
This clapt his Wings, that press'd his Vine,
And their best Pow'rs united move.
While each brave Greek embrac'd his Punk,
Lull'd her asleep, and then grew drunk.