Page:Cyder - a poem in two books (1708).djvu/84

BOOK II. With dire Intent; Bottles with Bottles clash In rude Encounter, round their Temples fly The sharp-edg'd Fragments, down their batter'd Cheeks Mixt Gore, and Cyder flow: What shall we say Of rash Elpenor, who in evil Hour Dry'd an immeasurable Bowl, and thought T' exhale his Surfeit by irriguous Sleep, Imprudent? Him, Death's Iron-Sleep opprest, Descending careless from his Couch; the Fall Luxt his Neck-joint, and spinal Marrow bruis'd. Nor need we tell what anxious Cares attend The turbulent Mirth of Wine; nor all the kinds Of Maladies, that lead to Death's grim Cave, Wrought by Intemperance, joint-racking Gout, Intestine Stone, and pining Atrophy, Chill, even when the Sun with July-Heats Frys the scorch'd Soil, and Dropsy all a-float, Yet craving Liquids: Nor the Centaurs Tale Rh