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Let Souldiers fight for pay and Praise, And Money be the Misers wish, Poor Schollars study all their days, And gluttons glory in their Dish: 'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls, Therefore give us Chearing Bowls. Let Minions marshal in their Hair, And in a Lovers lock delight, And artificiall colours wear, We have the native red and white. Your Pheasant, pout, and culver Salmon, And how to please your palates think, Give us Salt-West-Phalia-Gamon, Not meat to eat, but meat to drink. |
It makes the backward spirits brave, That lively which before was dull; Those grow good fellows that are grave, And kindness flows from cups brimfull. Some have the Tisick, some have Rheume, Some have the Palsey, some the Gout, Some swell with fat, and some consume, But they are sound that drink all out. Some men want youth, and some want Health, Some want a Wife, and some a punk, Some men want wit, and some want Wealth, But he wants nothing that is drunk. 'Tis wine, pure wine, revives sad Souls Therefore give us Chearing Bowls. |