The Good Fellow. Words by Mr.
Alex. Brome.
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STay, stay, shut the Gates,
T’other Quart, faith, it is not so late
As you’re thinking,
Those Stars which you see,
In this Hemisphere be,
But the Studs in your Cheeks by your Drinking:
The Sun is gone to Tiple all Night in the Sea Boys,
To Morrow he’ll blush that he’s paler than we Boys,
Drink Wine, give him Water, ’tis Sack makes us jee Boys.
Fill, fill up the Glass,
To the next merry Lad let it pass,
Come away with’t:
Come Set Foot to Foot,
And but give our Minds to’t,
’Tis Heretical Six that doth slay Wit,
No Helicon like to the Juice of the Vine is,
For Phœbus had never had Wit, nor Diviness,
Had his Face been bow dy’d as thine, his, and mine is.
Drink, drink off your Bowls,
We’ll enrich both our Heads and our Souls
With Canary;
A Carbuncled Face,
Saves a tedious Race,
For the Indies about us we carry:
Then hang up good Faces, we’ll drink till our Noses
Give freedom to speak what our Fancy disposes,
Beneath whose protection is under the Roses.
This, this must go round,
Off your Hats, till that the Pavement be Crown’d
With your Beavers;
A Red-coated Face,
Frights a Searjeant at Mace,
And the Constable trembles to shivers:
In state march our Faces like those of the Quorum,
When the Wenches fall down and the Vulgar adore’em,
And our Noses, like Link-boys, run shining before’em.
The Nymphs Holiday. The Tune of the
Nightingale.
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