In Cambridge, this title is not confined to the dignitaries of the
church; but _port_ wine, made _copiously potable_ by being mulled and
burnt, with the _addenda_ of roasted lemons all bristling like angry
hedge-hogs (studded with cloves,) is dignified with the appellation of
_Bishop_:
Beneath some old oak, come and rest thee, my hearty;
Our foreheads with roses, oh! let us entwine!
And, inviting young Bacchus to be of the party,
We'll drown all our troubles in oceans of wine!
And perfumed with _Macassar_ or _Otto_ of roses,
We'll pass round the BISHOP, the spice-breathing cup,
And take of that medicine such wit-breeding doses,
We'll knock _down_ the god, or he shall knock us _up_.
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