Cloaths be well made, and without a Spot on them.

Wash your Mouth, and clean your Teeth often; let your Beard be close
shaved, and your Nails short and free from Dirt.

Observe these Documents, and leave all other Niceties to the Women,
and to Men who desire to supply their Places.

But now _Bacchus_ summons his Poet. He likewise assists Lovers, and
favours the Flame which warms himself.

The _Cretan_ Lady having jumped out of Bed in a raving Fit, wandered
on the foreign Shore of _Dia_. She had nothing on but a loose wrapping
Gown, without Stockings or Cap: and her Hair hung dishevelled over her
Shoulders. She complained of the Cruelty of _Theseus_ to the deep
Waves, whilst an unworthy Shower of Tears ran down her Cheeks. She
wept, and lamented aloud, and both became her; nor did her Tears
diminish her Beauty. Once, and again, she beat her delicious Breasts
with her Hands, and cried aloud, _The perfidious Man hath abandoned
me; What will become of poor _Ariadne_? What will become of poor
_Ariadne_?_ On a sudden a vast Multitude was heard, while many Kinds
of strange Instruments, like those of the miserable Masons,
accompanied the Voices. The poor Lady sunk with Fear; and suppressed
her last Words; nor did the least Blood remain in her Countenance. And
now behold the _Bacchanalian_ Women, with their Hair about their Ears,
and the light Satyrs, who are always Forerunners of the God. Behold
old Master _Silenus_[47] as drunk as a Piper, riding on an Ass, which
he is hardly able either to sit or guide. The old Gentleman,
endeavouring to follow the _Bacchanalians_, who fly from him and
towards him, sets Spurs to his Ass, which being a vicious Beast,
kicked up, and threw him over his Ears: upon which all the Satyrs set
up a loud Shout, crying out, _Rise, Father, rise and be d----nd to
you_. And now the God himself, high mounted on his Four-Wheel Chaise,
the Top of which was adorned with Grapes, and which he drove himself,
flung his Golden Reins over the Backs of his Pair of Tygers. Poor
_Ariadne's_ Colour forsook her Cheeks, and _Theseus_ and her Voice at
once deserted her Lips. Thrice she attempted to fly, and thrice being
retained, she grew stiff with Fear, and stood trembling as Corn waves
in the Field, or Reeds on the River Bank, when fanned by the Wind. To
whom the God; _Behold, Madam, a more faithful Lover at your Feet: Fear
nothing, Lady fair, you shall be the Wife of _Bacchus_. The Sky shall
be your Dowry, where