(Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale),
Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul
As e’er crack’d a bottle, or fathom’d a bowl.
In boozing about ’twas his pride to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease
In his flow’r woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,