 | Claraphil and Clarinda |  |
A Ramble by Mr. A. B.
Stay, shut the Gate,
Tother Quart, Faith it is not so late
As your thinking,
Those Stars which we see
In the Hemisphere, be
But the Studs in our Cheeks by good Drinking,
The Sun's gone to tipple all night in the Sea, Boyes,
To morrow he'l blush, that he's paler than we, Boys,
Drink Wine, give him Water, 'tis Sack makes us The Boyes.
Tother Quart, Faith it is not so late
As your thinking,
Those Stars which we see
In the Hemisphere, be
But the Studs in our Cheeks by good Drinking,
The Sun's gone to tipple all night in the Sea, Boyes,
To morrow he'l blush, that he's paler than we, Boys,
Drink Wine, give him Water, 'tis Sack makes us The Boyes.
Fill up the Glass,
To the next merry Lad let it pass,
Come away with't,
Then set foot to foot,
And but give your Minde to't,
'Tis heretical Six,, that doth slay VVit,
Then hang up good faces, let's drink till our Noses
Gives freedom to speak what our Fansie disposes,
Beneath whose protection now Under the Rose is.
To the next merry Lad let it pass,
Come away with't,
Then set foot to foot,
And but give your Minde to't,
'Tis heretical Six,, that doth slay VVit,
Gives freedom to speak what our Fansie disposes,
Beneath whose protection now Under the Rose is.
Drink off your Bowls,
'Twill enrich both your Heads and your Souls,
With Canary,
A Carbuncled face
Saves a tedious Race;
For the Indies about us we carry;
No Helicon like to the Juice of Wine is,
For Phebus had never had Wit, or divine is,
Had his face not been Bow-dyed as thine is and mine is.
'Twill enrich both your Heads and your Souls,
With Canary,
A Carbuncled face
Saves a tedious Race;
For the Indies about us we carry;
No Helicon like to the Juice of Wine is,
For Phebus had never had Wit, or divine is,
Had his face not been Bow-dyed as thine is and mine is.
This must go round,
Off w' your Hats till the Pavement be crown'd,
With our Beavers,
A Red-coated Face
Frights a Serjeant and his Mace,
And the Constable trembles to shivers;
In State march our Faces like some of the Quorum,
When the Whores do fall down, & the Vulgars adore um
And our Noses like Link-boyes run shining before um.
Off w' your Hats till the Pavement be crown'd,
With our Beavers,
A Red-coated Face
Frights a Serjeant and his Mace,
And the Constable trembles to shivers;
In State march our Faces like some of the Quorum,
When the Whores do fall down, & the Vulgars adore um
And our Noses like Link-boyes run shining before um.
| Claraphil and Clarinda | |