Fame Sound thy Trump, all Ranks of Mortals Call,
To share a Prize that will enrich 'em All.
You that with Sacred Oracles converse,
And clearly wou'd Mysterious Truths rehearse;
On soaring Wings of Contemplation rise,
And fetch Discov'ries from above the Skies;
Ethereal TEA your Notions will resine,
Till you yourselves become almost Divine.
You statesmen, who in Storms the Publick
Helm Wou'd Guide with Skill, and Save a sinking Realm,
TEA, your Minerva, shall suggest such Sense,
Such safe and sudden Turns of Thought dispense,
That you, like her Ulysses, may Advise,
And start Designs that shall the World surprise.
You Pleaders, who for Conquest at the Bar
Contend as Fierce and Loud as Chiefs in War;
Would you Amaze and Charm the list'ning Court?
First to this Spring of Eloquence resort:
Then boldly launch on Tully's flowing Seas,
And grasp the Thunder of Demosthenes.
You Artists of the AEsculapian Tribe,
Wou'd you, like AEsculapius's Self, Prescribe,
Cure Maladies, and Maladies prevent?
Receive this Plant, from your own Phoebus sent;
Whence Life's nice Lamp in Temper is maintain'd,
When Dim, Recruited, when too fierce, restrained.
You Curious Souls, who all our Thoughts apply,
The hidden Works of Nature to descry;
Why veering Winds with Vari'd Motion blow,
Why Seas in settled Courses Ebb and Flow;
Wou'd you these Secrets of her Empire know?
Treat the Coy Nymph with this Celestial Dew,
Like Ariadne she'll impart the Clue;
Shall through her Winding Labyrinths convey,
And Causes, iculking in their Cells, display.
You that to Isis's Bark or Cam retreat,
Wou'd you prove worthy Sons of either Seat,
And All in Learning's Commonwealth be Great?
Infuse this Leaf, and your own Streams shall bring
More Science than the fam'd Castalian Spring.
Wou'd you, O Musick's Sons, your art Compleat,
And all its ancient Miracles repeat,
Rouse Rev'ling Monarchs into Martial Rage,
And, when Inflam'd, with Softer Notes As swage;
The tedious Hours of absent Love beguile,
Charm Care asleep, and make Affliction smile?
Carouse in Tea, that will your Souls inspire;
Drink Phoebus's liquor and command his Lyre.
Sons of Appelles, wou'd you draw the Face
And Shape of Venus, and with equal Grace
In some Elysian Field the Figure place?
Your Fancy, warm'd by TEA, with wish'd success,
Shall Beauty's Queen in all her Charms express;
With Nature's Rural Pride your Landscape fill
The Shady Grotto, and the Sunny Hill,
The Laughing Meadow, and the Talking Rill.
Sons of the Muses, would you Charm the Plains
With Chearful Lays, or Sweet Condoling Strains;
Or with a Sonnet make the Vallies ring,
To Welcome home the Goddess of the Spring?
Or wou'd you in sublimer Themes engage,
And sing of Worthies who adorn the Age?
Or, with Promethean Boldness, wou'd aspire
To Catch a Spark of the Celestial Fire
That Crowned the Royal Conquest, and could raise
Juverne's Boyn above Scamander's Praise?
Drink, drink Inspiring TEA, and boldly draw
A Hercules, a Mars, or a NASSAU.