How it chears the brains! Et mutatas dicere formas. Give me the boy, My delight and my joy, 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, 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, That from hence doth pass, 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, Tell'em all, I'll have fix in my hand, 'Tis in vain to command, the fleeting fand Come, my lads, move the glafs, drink about, We'll fet foot to foot, and drink it all out, 0. SONG R AIL no more ye learned affes, Ill them higher ftill, and higher, Draw the fcene for Wit and Pleasure, We for thinking have no leifure, Manly mirth is our employ : 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: 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, To tipple and cherish his foul; The liquor he'd merrily quaff, At thofe that were fober he'd laugh. [ Wife Solon, who carefully gave But, drinking, much talk would decline, 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. ] |