A SONG.
33. Drink, drink, all you that think
To cure your souls of sadnesse;
Take up your Sack, ’tis all you lack,
All worldly care is madness.
Let Lawyers plead, and Schollars read,
And Sectaries still conjecture,
Yet we can be as merry as they,
With a Cup of Apollo’s nectar.
Let gluttons feed, and souldiers bleed,
And fight for reputation,
Physicians be fools to fill up close stools,
And cure men by purgation:
Yet we have a way far better than they,
Which Galen could never conjecture,
To cure the head, nay quicken the dead,
With a cup of Apollo’s Nectar.
We do forget we are in debt
When we with liquor are warmed;
We dare out-face the Sergeant’s Mace, [p. 76.]
And Martiall Troops though armed.
The Swedish King much honour did win,
And valiant was as Hector;
Yet we can be as valiant as he,
With a cup of Apollo’s Nectar.
Let the worlds slave his comfort have,
And hug his hoards of treasure,
Till he and his wish meet both in a dish,
So dies a miser in pleasure.
’Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm,
We scorn this greedy conjecture;
’Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commend
This cup of Apollo’s Nectar.
The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot,
Wherewith we keep a quarter;
Enough for to choak with fire and smoak
The Great Turk and the Tartar.
Our faces red, our ensignes spread,
Apollo is our Protector:
To rear up the Scout, to run in and out,
And drink up this cup of Nectar.