University of Virginia Library

SONG XLVIII.

[Now the State's brains, are addle]

1.

Now the State's brains, are addle,
With a new fiddle faddle,
And Politick Body Disorder'd,

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74

And reeles too and fro,
(As Good fellows do)
In reason, that cannot be border'd:
VVhile, Drunk with their Wealth,
(Made Sweeter by Stealth)
They, Coop't in their Own,
Seek Kingdomes to come,
And fancy, beyond-sea-Vagaries;
VVe, sit Close at Home,
Content, with Lipp Room;
In the Infinite Space,
Of an Ocean Glasse,
Nere Sayle to, but Drink the Canaries:
And in our Opinion,
Have greater Dominion,
Then They, when their Conquests besot u'm;
VVe Discover ith' Cup,
That is, Well dry'd up,
A New New-found Land, in the bottom;
Then highten our Souls,
VVith aspiring Bowles,
For Crosses, & Cares w'have forgot u'm.

2.

Pox on Cupid, and's Whimseyes,
That makes a Man dimn's Eyes,
VVith Playnts to an Idle-fekt-Mistresse;
And, Spaniel-like, Whimper,
And Whine, till she Simper,

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75

Or Laugh, at his Woe, and his Distresse:
Let Mongrels that are
Betwixt hope, and fear,
Their Fortunes bemoan,
VVith a Grievous-Groan,
While we, merry Lads, that have drank hard
In our Geers, well warm,
Nere Think, nor Catch harm;
Nor Sensible are,
Of Sorrows, or Care,
Nor of Tears, but those of the Tankard:
That Spare-Rib (call'd Woman)
Or proper, or common,
Shall, ne're, taxe us off from our freedom;
Wee'l Drink deep, and draw,
With a hungry Maw,
As Spunges were there, for to feed 'um;
And for a recruit,
Fresh Bottles shall do't
Or Bottles, I'me sure, we shall need 'um.

3.

Let's curse that dull Miser
That will Club, but his Siser,
And suck out his gill, with the Bulkers;
While Taverns, they bugger,
Trunk in Hugger mugger;
Our throats are like Open Sepulchers:
Each Man, with is lowle,

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76

Like a Good dry soul,
And a Manag'd Quart,
To solace the Heart,
The Word Have at all, so we fall on,
And hugg, his Design,
Who, at close oth' Wine,
Entitles, by Stealth,
A Requiring Health,
Till, the pinte, turn Pimp to the Gallon.
Thus wash away Sorrow,
With thoughts of to Morrow,
Or any past thing that befell ye;
For, Sack is a sure,
And a Soveraign Cure,
Of any Disease, it will heal ye,
What would a Man more,
Out of Nature's store,
Then Women and Wine by the belly?