Sit close, and draw the table nigher,
Be merry, and drink wine that’s old,
A hearty medicine ’gainst the cold;
Your bed[’s] of wanton down the best,
Where you may tumble to your rest:
I could well wish you wenches too,
But I am dead, and cannot do.
Call for the best, the house will ring,
Sack, White and Claret, let them bring,
And drink apace, whilst breath you have,