THE FLY by FRANCISCO GOMEZ DE QUEVEDO Y VILLEGAS

@3Out of the wine-pot cried the Fly,
Whilst the grave Frog sate croaking by,@1
Than live a wat'ry life like thine,
I'd rather choose to die in wine.

I

I never water could endure,
Though ne'er so crystalline and pure.
Water's a murmurer, and they
Design more mischief than they say,
Where rivers smoothest are and clear.
Oh there's the danger, there's the fear;
But I'll not grieve to die in wine,
That name is sweet, that sound's divine.
@3Thus from the wine-pot, &c.@1

II

Dull fish in water live, we know,
And such insipid souls as thou;
While to the wine do nimbly fly,
Many such pretty birds as I:
With wine refresh'd, as flowers with rain,
My blood is clear'd, inspir'd my brain;
That when the Tory boys do sing,
I buzz i' th' chorus for the king.
@3Thus from the wine-pot, &c.@1

III

I'm more belov'd than thou canst be,
Most creatures shun thy company;
I go unbid to ev'ry feast,
Nor stay for grace, but fall o' th' best:
There while I quaff in choicest wine,
Thou dost with puddle-water dine,
Which makes thee such a croaking thing.
Learn to drink wine, thou fool, and sing;
@3Thus from the wine-pot, &c.@1

IV

In gardens I delight to stray,
And round the plants do sing and play:
Thy tune no mortal does avail,
Thou art the Dutchman's nightingale:
Would'st thou with wine but wet thy throat,
Sure thou would'st leave that dismal note;
Lewd water spoils thy organs quite,
And wine alone can set them right.
@3Thus from the wine-pot, &c.@1

V

Thy comrades still are newts and frogs,
Thy dwelling saw-pits, holes, and bogs:
In cities I, and courts am free,
An insect too of quality.
What pleasures, ah! didst thou but know,
This heav'nly liquor can bestow:
To drink, and drown thou'dst ne'er repine;
The great Anacreon died by wine.
@3Thus from the wine-pot, &c.@1

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