Comparisons are foolish stuff,
When they are found untrue;
There's no two things are farther off,
Than Bacchus is from you.

Curiously wrought in wood, or stone,
And dress'd in smiles, his face,
While yours, as ev'ry one must own,
Smiles in eternal brass.

In fable, I'll no verse equip,
But sober truth will tell ye;
In circumf'rence you far outstrip
The God of wond'rous belly.

In that great swell, above your fobs,
A swell outdone by few,
If empty, then a dozen gods
Might dance a jig or two.

His fees pass under him, through the inn-doors,
Yours issue from a flaw,
He kindly casts an eye within doors,
You, to a Court of Law.

One tongue in silence may be laid,
Another talk by fits,
But yours wag by the hour, 'tis said,
White Bacchus silent sits.

He ne'er, in all his days, maintain'd
A thing that was not true;
Though both are by the bar sustain'd;
Can this be said of you?

Besides his grapes, a wreath divine
His sacred temples bound;
He rides triumphant on a sign,
You waddle on the ground.

Half down, half up, which of the two
In kindnesses surpass;
You hack the Presbyterians through,
He offers them a glass.

His bottle makes his clients gay
By dissipating trouble;
But yours, their vitals suck'd away,
Perceive their cares are double.

Naked, he braves th' inclement skies,
And overlooks the town,
While you, in vain, attempt to rise,
And reach a silken gown.

We'll now conclude, as we begun,
A subject that allures;
His bauble rests upon his tun,
Your tun rests upon yours.