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O blest 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 pass

In quaffing nappy ale.

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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.

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* From “ A ryght pithy, plealaunt and meric comedie s Intytuled Gammer Gurtons Nedlc,” London. 1575. - This very humorous ancient drama is preserved, amongst divers similar curiosities, in the excellent colle&tion of old plays lately publihed by mr. Dodney.

Backe

Backe and syde go bare, go bare,

Boo:b foote and hand go colde :
But, belly, God send thee good ale inoughe,

Whether it be new or olde.

I loue no rost, but a nut-browne tofte,

And a crab. laid in the fyre ;
A little breade shall do me stead,

Much breade I not defyre.
No frost nor snow, nor winde I trowe,

Can hurte mee if I wolde,
I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt,

Of ioly good ale and olde.
Backe and lyde go bare, &c.

And Tyb my wyfe, that as her lyfe,

Loueth well good ale to seeke,
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see

The teares run downe her cheeke:
Then doth the trowle to mee the bowle,

Euen as a mault-worme shu!d;
And sayth, sweete bart, 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 shoulde doe : They shall not mysse to have the blisse,

Good ale doth bringe men to.

* Crab-apple.

And

And all poore foules that have scowred boules

Or have them lustely trolde,
God saue the lyues of them and their wyues,

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

SONG

LIII.

THE BROWN JUG.

IMITATED FROM THE LATIN OF HIERONYMUS AMALTHEUS.

BY THE REV. MR. FAWKES.

D
EAR Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with

mild ale,
(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale)
Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old foul
As e’er drank a bottle, or fathom’d a bowl ;
In boofing about 'twas his praise 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 honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden 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 resolv'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 sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale,
So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.

SONG

{

SONG LIV.

THE MAD LOVER.

BY ALEXANDER BROME.

I

many and

Have been in love, and in debt, and in drink,
This

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..

'Twill pay all

There's nothing but money can cure me,
And rid me of all my pain,

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.

SON G LV.

UPERAL

TPBRAID me not, capricious fair,

With drinking to excess ;
I should not want to drown despair,

indifference less.

Were your

Love me, my dear, and you shall find.

When this excuse is gone ;
That all my bliss, when Chloe's kind,

Is fix'd on her alone.

The

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.

Y temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine,

And barter a of wine,
In search of a Venus no longer l'll run,
But stop and forget her at Bacchuses tun.

Yet why this resolve to relinquish the fair?
'Tis a folly with spirits 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 lass,

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

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

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

SONG

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