How it chears the brains!
How it warms the veins!
How against all croffes it arms us!
How it makes him that's poor
Courageously roar,

Et mutatas dicere formas.

Give me the boy,

My delight and my joy,
To my tantum that drinks his tale :

By fack he that waxes,

In our fyntaxis,

Eft verbum perfonale.

Art thou weak or lame,

Or thy wits to blame?

Call for fack and thou shalt have it ;

"Twill make him rife,

And be very wife,

Cui vim natura negavit.

We have frolic rounds,

We have merry go-downs. Yet nothing is done at random; For when we're to pay,

We club and away,

Id eft commune notandum.

The

The blades that want cash,

Have credit for crash,

They'll have fack whatever it coft'em ;

They do not pay

Till another day, Manet alta mente repoftum.

Who ne'er fails to drink

All clear from the brink, With a fmooth and even fwallow, I'll offer at his fhrine,

And call it divine,

Et erit mihi magnus Apollo.

He that drinks ftill,
And ne'er has his fill,
Hath a paffage like a conduit :
The fack doth inspire

In rapture and fire,

Sic ather athera fundit.

When you merrily quaff,

If any go off,

And flily offer to pass ye,

Give their nose a twitch,

And kick 'em in the breech

Nam componuntur ab affe.

I have told you plain,
And will tell you again,
Be he furious as Orlando,
He is an afs

That from hence doth pass,
Nifi bibit ad oftia ftando.

SONG XXX.

NOME fill me a glafs, fill it high,

COM

A bumper, a bumper I'll have ;

He's a fool that will flinch, I'll not bate him an inch,

Though I drink myself into the grave.

Here's a health then to thofe jolly fouls,

Who like me will ne'er give o'er;

Who no danger controuls, but will take off their bowls, And merry tickle for more.

Drown reason, and all fuch weak foes,

I fcorn to obey her command,

Could the ever fuppofe I'd be led by the nofe,

And let my glass idly ftand?

Reputation's a bugbear to fools,

A foe to the joys of dear drinking,
Made ufe of by tools, who'd fet us new rules,
And bring us to pofitive thinking.

Tell'em all, I'll have fix in my hand,
For I've trifled an age away :

'Tis in vain to command, the fleeting fand
Rolls on, and cannot ftay.

Come, my lads, move the glafs, drink about,
We'll drink the universe dry;

We'll fet foot to foot, and drink it all out,
If once we grow fober we die.

0.

SONG

R

AIL no more ye learned affes,
'Gain the joys the bowl fupplies;
Sound its depth, and fill your glaffes,
Wiftom at the bottom lies.

Ill them higher ftill, and higher,
Shallow draughts perplex the brain;
Sipping quenches all our fire,
Bumpers light it up again.

Draw the fcene for Wit and Pleasure,
Enter Jollity and Joy;

We for thinking have no leifure,

Manly mirth is our employ :
Since in life there's nothing certain,

We'll the prefent hour engage;

And, when Death fhall drop the curtain,

With applaufe we'll quit the ftage.

SONG

XXXII.

THE TIPLING PHILOSOPHERS. *

D'

IOGENES furly and proud,

Who fnarl'd at the Macedon youth,

Delighted in wine that was good,

Because in good wine there is truth:
Till growing as poor as a Job,
Unable to purchase a flask,

He chofe for his manfion a tub,

And liv'd by the scent of the cafk.

* Confifted originally of but fix verses. The author afterwards inferted a number of additional stanzas, of which, thofe included within crotchets have been fometimes printed as part of the fong. The whole is contained in a little pamphlet, intitled Wine and Wifdom, or the Tipling Philofophers, a lyrick poem. Lond. 1710,

Heraclitus

Heraclitus would never deny

A bumper to comfort his heart,
But when he was maudlin would cry,
Because he had emptied his quart :
Though fome are fo foolish to think
He wept at mans folly and vice,
'Twas only his custom to drink
Till the liquor flow'd out of his eyes,
Democritus always was glad

To tipple and cherish his foul;
And would laugh like a man that was mad,
When over a full flowing bowl :
As long as his cellar was ftor'd,

The liquor he'd merrily quaff,
And when he was drunk as a lord,

At thofe that were fober he'd laugh.

[ Wife Solon, who carefully gave
Good laws unto Athens of old,
And thought the rich Crofus a slave,
Though a king, to his coffers of gold;
He delighted in plentiful bowls;

But, drinking, much talk would decline,
Because 'twas the cuftom of fools,

To prattle much over their wine.

Old Socrates ne'er was content,

Till a bottle had heightened his joys,

Who in's cups to the oracle went,

Or he ne'er had been counted fo wife :

Late hours he certainly lov'd,

Made wine the delight of his life, Or Xantippe would never have prov'd Such a damnable scold of a wife. ]