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How it chears the brains !

How it warms the veios !
How against all croffes it arms us!

How it makes him that's poos

Courageoully roar, Et mutat as dicere formas.

Give me the boy,

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

By fack he that waxes,

In oor syntaxis, Ex verbum perfonale.

Art thou weak or lame,

Or thy wits to blame?
Call for fack and thou shalt have it ;

'Twill make him rise,

And be very wise, 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 blades that want cash,

Have creuit for craih, They'll have fack whatever it coitem ;

They do not pay

Till another day, Manet alta mente repoftum.

Who ne'er fails to drink

All clear from the brink, With a smooth and even swallow,

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 passage like a conduit :

The fack doth infpire

In rapture and fire, Sic ether æthera 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 affr.



I have told you plain,

And will tell you again,
Be he furious as Orlando,

He is an ass

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

HOME fill me a glass, fill it high,

A bumper, a bumper l'll have
He's a fool that will Ainch, I'll not bate him an inch,

Though I drink myself into the grave.
Here's a health then to those jolly fouls,

Who like me will ne'er give o'er ;
Who no danger controuls, but will take off their bowls,

And merry stickle for more.
Drown reason, and all such weak foes,

I scorn to obey her command,
Could the ever fuppose I'd be led by the nose,

And let my glass idly stand ?
Reputation's a bugbear to fools,

A foe to the joys of dear drinking,
Made use of by tools, who'd set us new rules,

And bring us to positive thinking.
Tell'em all, I'll have fix in my hand,

For I've tried an age away :
'Tis in vain to command, the fleeting fand

Rolls on, and cannot stay.
Come, my lads, move the glass, drink about,

We'll drink the universe dry;
We'll set foot to foot, and drink it all out,
If once we grow sober we die.

0. VOL. II.





A'L eo more ye learned affes,

Get the joys the bowl supplies ;
Sediu depih, and fill your glasses,

W& a! the bottom lies.
I co lizher still, and higher,

She cow draughts perplex the brain ;
Epping quenches all our fire,

Bumpers right it up again.
Draw the scene for Wit and Pleasure,

Ester Jollity and Joy ;
We for thinking have no leisure,

Marly inirth is our employ :
Since in life there's nothing certain,

We'll the present hour engage;
Ard, when Death shall drop the curtain,

With applause we'll quit the stage.



TOGENES furly and proud,

Who snari'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 chose for his mansion a tub,

And liv'd by the scent of the cask.

Confifted originally of but fix verres. The author afterwards inSerted a number of additional stanzas, of which, those included within crotchets have been lomclimes pri part of the song. The whole is contained in a lilele pamphlet, incitied Wine and Wisdom, or the Tipling Philosophers, a lyrick poem. Lond. 1710,


Heraclitus would never deny

A bumper to comfort his heart, But when he was maudlin would cry,

Because he had emptied his quart : Though some are so 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 soul;
And would laugh like a man that was mad,

When over a full flowing bowl :
As long as his cellar was stor'd,

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

At those that were sober he'd laugh. ( Wife Solon, who carefully gave

Good laws unto Athens of old,
And thought the rich Creesus a lave,

Though a king, to his coffers of gold ;
He delighted in plentiful bowls;

But, drinking, much talk would decline, Because 'twas the custom 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 nc'er had been counted so wise : Late hours he certainly lov’d,

Made wine the delight of his life, Or Xantippe would never have provid

Such a damnable scold of a wife. ]


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