Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique :: :: University of Virginia Library

Come my sure drinking Blades!
VVhose never known Trades,
Are excus'd, from the Curse of the women,
From Plot or design,
But for money or Wine,
VVhile priviledg'd draughts,
Are loose, as your thoughts,
And drink, makes you, only, Freemen,

Be brisk, as a lowse
Oth' Body or mouse,
When the Puss, does Catlin a Fiddle,
For, the Drawer, shall bring
Ague like, in the Spring,
A Cure, for a King,
Oh! tis Sack! that's the things
Tis an All in all,
That will come, at the call!
The Sick-man's health,
And the poor man's wealth
'Tis a kind of a Riddle-me-riddle:
Then Oh! my brave bully!
Why sit'st thou so dully,
And dreyn'st up thy gully
With spung'd Melancholly!
'Tis a Fiefor-shame, to thy breeding
To sit, like those
Make Children shoes,
And tamper thy chapps,
Like a Clark, in's Clapps,
Or on Brawn, an old Gossip, a feeding

Cho.

It is Wine,
That's divine,
Must refine,
Our dull Souls:

There's no mirth,
In the Earth,
Where's a Dearth,
Of the Bowls.

2.

Come! a Health to a Mis'!
A brimmer it is;
To the first Letter this,
Then sillable all together!
Oh! a Name, of an Ell.
That's beyond our spell,
Would do, rarely well,
To multiply Cups on either:
We'le Drink, not fight,
For a Ladies right,
He's no Draught's man, that will wrong one,
And, hence, maintain,
By the Drink w'have ta'ne,
There's no good Name,
But a Long one.
Thus our mistrisses live,
And fates servive,
While others are perisht, and rotten,
We Saint, each Lass,
Canoniz'd, in a Glass,
And their beauties, are never forgotten.

Cho.

It is Wine, &c.

3.

Well! how goes the Glass!
Let's see! has he done it!
So so; let it pass!
He's next who begun it!
Twas I, that swallowd the first, I
Let's not Drink to halves,
Like Waltham's Calves,
And home, agen, turn, a thirsty.
Ralph! prime him a bowle
Happy man! be his dole!
Here's soveraign Sack,
For the brains, and the back,
Tis good, for the gentle and simple,
'Tis not, for nought,
(As, the Wiser, have thought)
That the Devil's, so near the Temple:
Twas this (in a word)
Made, the Cobler, a Lord
Till, relaps'd, to bewitched water,
In an ill time (then)
Recobler'd agen,
VVas, never, his own man, after:
Our Soul, is a Salt,
(As Philosopher's call't,)
But given, to keep us, from stinking,

But Nature had (sure)
Other end, to procure
A Thirst, for to further, our Drinking!
Then, why does this Blade,
Drink, so like a Maid!
While he thinks, no body does mind him
Yet, daily he Views
The Danger, accrew',
By leaving the Liquour behind him:
This youth, suites me best,
Who, would, ne're, let it rest,
Ill Conscience like, were the Bowle his,
But sucks like a Man,
With a Throat, like a Crane,
And wracks down his Body, a whole Piece.
Say! what pleasure is't,
For to supply the Twist
Of a Quean? he's Fool, that will ask it.
The Plow-man, is sound,
While he's Tearing the Ground,
And busi'd, in Pinning the Basket.

Cho.

It is Wine
That's Divine
Must refine
Our dull Souls,
There's no Mirth,
In the Earth,
Where's a Dearth!
Of the Bowls.