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O bleft potation! ftill by thee,
And thy companion, liberty,

Do health and mirth prevail;
Then let us crown the can, the glass,
And sportive bid the minutes pafs
In quaffing nappy ale.

Ev'n while these ftanzas I indite,
The bar-bells grateful founds invite
Where joy can never fail.
Adieu, my mufe, adieu! I hafte
To gratify my longing tafte

I

With copious draughts of ale,

SONG LII. *

BACKE and fide go bare, go bare,
Booth foote and hande go colde :

But bellye, God fende thee good ale ynoughe,
Whether it be newe or olde.

Cannot eate but lytle meate,

My ftomacke is not good;

But fure I thinke that I can drynke
With him that weares a hood.
Thoughe I go bare take ye no care.
I am nothinge a colde;

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,
Whether it be new or olde.

I loue no roft, but a nut-browne tofte,
And a crab laid in the fyre;
A little breade fhall do me ftead,
Much breade I not defyre.

No froft nor fnow, nor winde I trowe,
Can hurte mee if I wolde,

I am fo wrapt, and throwly lapt,
Of ioly good ale and olde.
Backe and fyde go bare, &c.

And Tyb my wyfe, that as her lyfe,
Loueth well good ale to feeke,
Full oft drynkes fhee, tyll ye may fee
The teares run downe her cheeke:
'Then doth fhe trowle to mee the bowle,
Euen as a mault-worme fhuld;
And fayth, fweete hart, I tooke my part
Of this ioly good ale and olde.

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
Or have them luftely trolde,

God faue the lyues of them and their wyues,

Whether they be yonge or olde.
Backe and fyde go bare, &c.

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;
In boofing about 'twas his praife to excell,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanc'd, as in dog-days he fat at his ease,
In his flower-woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing forrows away,
And with honeft old ftingo was foaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a fudden were fhut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

His body when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had refolv'd it again,

A potter found out in its covert so snug,

And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug;
Now facred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale,
So here's to my lovely fweet Nan of the vale.

SONG

74

{

DRINKING SONG S.

I

SONG LIV.

THE MAD LOVER.

BY ALEXANDER BROME.

Have been in love, and in debt, and in drink,
This many and many a year;

And those three are plagues enough, one would think,

For one poor mortal to bear.

'Twas drink made me fall into love,
And love made me run into debt;

And though I have struggled, and struggled, and strove,
I cannot get out of them yet..

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,
Will love me, and love me again :
Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again.

UPBRA

SONG LV.

TPBRAID me not, capricious fair,
With drinking to excess ;

I should not want to drown defpair,
Were your indifference less.

Love me, my dear, and you fhall find.
When this excuse is gone;

That all my blifs, when Chloe's kind,
Is fix'd on her alone.

The

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The god of wine the victory
To beauty yields with joy;
For Bacchus only drinks like me,
When Ariadne's coy.

SONG LVI.

BY MR. WILLIAM WOTY.

My of wine.
MY

temples with clufters of grapes I'll entwine,
And barter all joys for a goblet

In fearch of a Venus no longer I'll run,
But ftop and forget her at Bacchuses tun.

Yet why this refolve to relinquish the fair?
'Tis a folly with fpirits like mine to despair,
And pray what mighty joys can be found in a glass,
If not fill'd to the health of a favourite lafs,

'Tis woman, whofe joys every rapture impart,
And lend a new spring to the pulse of the heart.
The mifer himself (fo fupreme is her sway)
Grows a convert to love, and refigns her his key.

At the found of her voice Sorrow lifts up her head,
And poverty liftens well pleas'd from her fhed;
Whilft Age in half ecstacy hobbling along,
Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her fong.

Then fill me a goblet from Bacchuses hoard,
The largest, the deepest that ftands on the board:
I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair,
'Tis the thirft of a lover, then pledge me who dare.

SONG

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