O bleft potation! ftill by thee, Do health and mirth prevail; Ev'n while these ftanzas I indite, I With copious draughts of ale, SONG LII. * BACKE and fide go bare, go bare, But bellye, God fende thee good ale ynoughe, Cannot eate but lytle meate, My ftomacke is not good; But fure I thinke that I can drynke I ftuff my skyn fo full within, Of ioly good ale and olde. From “ A ryght pithy, pleasaunt and merie comedie: Intytuled Gammer Gurtons Nedle." London. 1575-- This very humorous ancient drama is preferved, amongst divers fimilar curiofities, in the excellent collection of old plays lately published by mr. Dodfley. Backe Backe and fyde go bare, go bare, Booth foote and hand go colde: But, belly, God fend thee good ale inoughe, I loue no roft, but a nut-browne tofte, No froft nor fnow, nor winde I trowe, I am fo wrapt, and throwly lapt, And Tyb my wyfe, that as her lyfe, Backe and fyde go bare, &c. Now let them drynke tyll they nod and winke, Even as good felowes fhoulde doe: They fhall not myffe to have the bliffe, Good ale doth bringe men to. * Crab-apple. And And all poore foules that have fcowred boules God faue the lyues of them and their wyues, Whether they be yonge or olde. SONG LIII. THE BROWN JUG. IMITATED FROM THE LATIN OF HIERONYMUS AMALTHEUS. D BY THE REV. MR. FAWKES. EAR Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale, (In which I will drink to fweet Nan of the vale) Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirty old foul As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl; It chanc'd, as in dog-days he fat at his ease, His body when long in the ground it had lain, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug; SONG 74 { DRINKING SONG S. I SONG LIV. THE MAD LOVER. BY ALEXANDER BROME. Have been in love, and in debt, and in drink, And those three are plagues enough, one would think, For one poor mortal to bear. 'Twas drink made me fall into love, And though I have struggled, and struggled, and strove, There's nothing but money can cure me, And rid me of all my pain, 'Twill pay all my debts, And remove all my lets; And my mistress that cannot endure me, UPBRA SONG LV. TPBRAID me not, capricious fair, I should not want to drown defpair, Love me, my dear, and you fhall find. That all my blifs, when Chloe's kind, The The god of wine the victory SONG LVI. BY MR. WILLIAM WOTY. My of wine. temples with clufters of grapes I'll entwine, In fearch of a Venus no longer I'll run, Yet why this refolve to relinquish the fair? 'Tis woman, whofe joys every rapture impart, At the found of her voice Sorrow lifts up her head, Then fill me a goblet from Bacchuses hoard, SONG |