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CHORUS.
Then let full bowls on bowls be hurl'd,

That our jollity may be completer ;
For man though he be but a very little world,

Must be drown'd, as well as the greater. We'll drink till our cheeks are as starred as the

skies, Let the pale-colour'd students flout us, And our noses, like comets, set fire on our eyes, Till we bear the whole heavens about us.

And if all

Make us fall,
Then our heels shall devise
What the stars are doing without us.

Let Lilly

Go tell you
Of thunders

And wonders,
Let astrologers all vine,

And let Booker

Be a looker
Of our natures

In our features,
He'll find nothing but claret in mine.

THE PAINTER'S ENTERTAINMENT. Tuis is the time, and this is the day

Design’d for mirth and sporting,
We'll turn October into May,

And make St. Luke's feast
As pleasant and long as the rest,
We'll in our faces our colours display,

And hallow our yearly resorting.
Then let the bowls turn round round,

While in them our colours we mingle,
To raise our dull souls from the ground,
Our arts and our pains are thus crown'd,

And happy are we

That in unity be, 'Tis a Hell upon Earth to be single.

CHORUS.

'Twas love at first that brought us hither, And love shall keep us here together. First to the master of the feast,

This health is consecrated,
Thence to each sublimary guest,

Whose soul doth desire
This nectar to raise and inspire,
Till he with Apelles himself doth contest,

And bis fancy is elevated,
Then let, &c.

CHORUS

Then let full bowls, &c.

CHORUS.

COPERNICUS.

Let the bowl pass free
From him to thee

As it first came to me, 'Tis pity that we should confine it, Having all either credit or coin yet;

Let it e'en take its course,

There's no stopping its force, He that shuffles must interline it.

'Twas love, &c.
Lo how the air, the earth and the seas,

Have all brought in their treasure,
To feast each sense with rarities;

Plump Bacchus brings wine,
And Ceres her dainties doth join,
The air with rare music dotn echo, and these

All club to create us pleasure.
Then let the bowls, &c.

CHORUS.
"Twas love, &c.
Now in our fancies we will suppose

The world in all its glory, Imagine all delight that grows,

And pleasures that can
Fill up the vast soul of a man,
And glut the coy palate, the eyes, ears and nose,

By the fancy presented before you.
Then let the bowls, &e.

Lay aside your cares,
Of shops and wares,

And irrational fears,
Let each breast be as thongtless as his'n is,
That from his bed newly ris'n is;

We'll banish each soul,

That comes here to condole, Or is troubled with love or business.

CHORUS.

The king we'll not name,
Nor a lady, tinflame

With desire to the game,
An:1 into a dumpishness drive all,
Or make us run mad, and go wive all;

We'll have this wbole night

Set apait for delight, And our mirth shall bave no co-rival.

'Twas love, &c.
We'll use no pencil now but the bowl,

Let every artist know it,
In sack we will pourtray each soul,

Each health that is took
Will give us the livelier look,
And who's he that dares our farcy controul,

When each painter is turned a poet ?
Then let the bowls, &r.

Then see that the glass
Through its circuit do pass,

Till it come where it was,
And every nose has been within it,
Till he end it that first did begin it;

As Copernicus found,

That the Earth did turn round, We will prove so does every thing in it.

CHORUS

'Twas love, &c.

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WHY should we not laugh and be jolly?
Siuce now all the world is mad?

All lull'd in a dull melancholy;
He that wallows in store,

Is still gaping for more,

And that makes him as poor, As that wretch that never any thing had. How mad is the damn'd money-monger,

That, to purchase to him and his heirs, Grows shrivel'd with thirst and hunger? While we that are bonny,

Buy sack for ready money,
And ne'er trouble scriveners nor lawyers.

Those gulls that by scraping and toiling,
Have swell'd the revenues so vast,
Get nothing by all their turmoiling,
But are marks for each tax,
While they load their own backs,
With the heavier packs,

And lie down gall'd and weary at last :
While we that do traffick in tipple,
Can baffle the gown and the sword,
Whose jaws are so hungry and gripple,
We ne'er trouble our heads,
With indentures or deeds,
But our wills are compris'd in a word.

Our money shall never indite us,

Nor drag us to Goldsmith's-hall,
Nor pirates nor storms can affright us;
We that have no estates,
Pay no taxes or rates,

But can sleep with open gates,
He that lies on the ground cannot fall.
We laugh at those fools whose endeavours
Do but fit 'em for prisons or fines,
While we that spend all are the savers,
For if thieves do steal in,
They go out empty again,
Nay the plunderers lose their designs.

Then let's not take care for to morrow,
But tipple and laugh while we may,
To wash from our hearts all sorrow;
Those cormorants, which

Are troubled with an itch,

To be mighty and rich,

Do but toil for the wealth which they borrow.
The mayor of the town with his ruff on,
What a pox is he better than we?

He must vail to the men with the buff on,
He custard may eat,

And such lubberly meat,

But we drink and are merrier than be,

THE INDEPENDENT'S RESOLVE.

WRITTEN IN 1648.

COME, drawer, and fill us about some wine,
Let's merrily tipple, the day's our own,
We'll have our delights, let the country go pine,
Let the king and his kingdom groan:
The crown is our own and so shall continue,
We'll monarchy baffle quite,

We'll drink off the kingdom's revenue,
And sacrifice all to delight.

'Tis power that brings

Us all to be kings,

And we'll be all crown'd by our might.

A fig for divinity lectures and law,

And all that to loyalty do pretend,
While we by the sword keep the kingdom in awe,
Our power shall never have end.

The church and the state we'll turn into liquor,
And spend a whole town in a day,

We'll melt all their bodkins the quicker
Into sack, and drink them away.

We'll keep the demesnes
And turn bishops and deans,
And over the presbyter sway.

The nimble St. Patrick is sunk in his boggs,
And his countrymen sadly cry, "O honey, O
honey!"

St. Andrew and's kirkmen are lost in their fogs,
Now we are the saints alone.

Thus on our superiors and equals we trample,
And Jocky our stirrup shall hold,
The city's our mule for example,
That we may in plenty be roll'd,
Each delicate dish,
Shall but echo our wish,
And our drink shall be cordial gold,

ON CANARY.

Or all the rare juices,

That Bacchus or Ceres produces,
There's none that I can, nor dare I
Compare with the princely Canary.
For this is the thing
That a fancy infuses,

This first got a king,
And next the nine Muses;

'Twas this made old poets so sprightly to sing, And fill all the world with the glory and fame on't, They Helicon call'd it, and the Thespian spring, But this was the drink, though they knew not the name on't.

Our cider and perry,

May make a man mad, but not merry,
It makes people windmill-pated,
And with crackers sophisticated;

And your hops, yest, and malt,
When they're mingled together,
Makes our fancies to halt,
Or reel any whither;

It stuffs up our brains with froth and with yest,
That if one would write but a verse for a bellman,
He must study till Christmas for an eight shilling
jest,
[whelm man.
These liquors won't raise, but drown, and o'er-

Our drowsy metheglin Was only ordain'd to inveigle in,

The novice that knows not to drink yet,
But is fuddled before he can think it:
And your claret and white

Have a gunpowder fury,
They're of the French spright,
But they won't long endure you.
And your holiday muscadine, Alicant and tent,
Have only this property and virtue that's fit in't.
They'll make a man sleep till a preachment be spent,
But we neither can warm our blood nor wit in't.

The bagrag and Rhenish

You must with ingredients replenish;
'Tis a wine to please ladies and toys with,
But not for a man to rejoice with.

But 'tis sack makes the sport,

And who gains but that flavour,

Though an abbess he court,

In his high-shoes he'll have her;

'Tis this that advances the drinker and drawer: Though the father came to town in his hobnails and leather,

He turns it to velvet, and brings up an heir,
In the town in his chain, in the field with his feather.

THE LEVELLER.

NAY prithee don't fly me,

But sit thee down by me,

I cannot endure

A man that's demure.

Go hang up your worships and sirs,
Your congees and trips,

With your legs and your lips,
Your madams and lords,
And such finikin words,

With the compliments you bring
That do spell no-thing,

You may keep for the chains and the furs ; For at the beginning was no peasant or prince, And 'twas policy made the distinction since.

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Those titles of honours

Do remain in the donours,
And not in that thing,

To which they do cling,

If his soul be too narrow to wear 'em.

No delight can I see

In that word call'd degree,
Honest Dick sounds as well
As a name of an ell,

That with titles doth swell

And sounds like a spell,

To affright mortal ears that hear 'em.

He that wears a brave soul, and dares gallantly do,

May be his own herald and godfather too.

Why then should we doat on,

One with a fool's coat on?

Whose coffers are cramm'd,

But yet he'll be damn'd,

E're he'll do a good act or a wise one?

What reason has he

To be ruler o'er me,

That's a lord in his chest,

But in 's head and his breast

Is empty and bare,

Or but puff'd up with air,

And can neither assist nor advise one?
YOL. VI.

Honour's but air, and proud flesh but dust is,

'Tis we commons make lords, and the clerk makes the justice.

But since men must be

Of a different degree,
Because most do aspire

To be greater and higher,

Than the rest of their fellows and brothers:
He that has such a spirit,

Let him gain it by 's merit,

Spend his brain, wealth or blood,
For his country's good,
And make himself fit

By his valour or wit,

For things 'bove the reach of all others.
For honour's a prize, and who wins it may wear it,
If not 'tis a badge and a burthen to bear it.

For my part let me
Be but quiet and free,
I'll drink sack and obey,

And let great ones sway,

And spend their whole time in thinking:
I'll ne'er busy my pate
With secrets of state,

The news books I'll burn all,
And with the diurnal

Light tobacco, and admit

That they're so far fit,

As they serve good company and drinking; All the name I desire is an honest good-fellow, And that man has no worth that won't sometimes be mellow.

THE ROYALIST'S ANSWER.

I HAVE reason to fly thee,

And not sit down by thee;
For I hate to behold,

One so saucy and bold,

To deride and contemn his superiours:

Our madains and lords,

And such mannerly words,

With the gestures that be

Fit for every degree,

Are things that ve and you

Both claim as our due,

From all those that are our inferiours.

For from the beginning there were princes we know, 'Twas you leveliers hate 'm 'cause you can't be so.

All titles of honours

Were at first in the denours;

But being granted away

With the grantee's stay,

Where he wear a small soul or a bigger.

There's a necessity

That there should be degree,

Where 'tis due we'll afford

A sir John, and my lord,

Though Dick, Tom and Jack,

Will serve you and your pack,

Honest Dick's name enough for a digger.

He that has a strong purse can all things be or do,
He is valiant and wise and religious too.

We have cause to adore,
That man that has store,
Though a boor or a sot,

There's something to be got,
U u

Though he be neither honest nor witty:

Make him high, let him rule,

He'll be playing the fool,

And transgress, then we'll squeeze
Him for fines and for fees;

And so we shall gain,

By the wants of his brain,

'Tis the fool's cap that maintains the city.

If honour be air, 'tis in common, and as fit,

For the fool and the clown, as for the champion or

the wit.

Then why may'nt we be

Of different degree?

And each man aspire

To be greater and higher,

Than his wiser or honester brother,
Since Fortune and Nature
Their favours do scatter;
This hath valour, that wit,
T'other wealth, nor i'st fit
That one should have all,

For then what would befall

Him, that's born nor to one nor to t'other? Though honour were a prize at first, now 'tis a

chattle,

[cattle.

And as merchantable grown as your wares or your

Yet in this we agree,

To live quiet and free,

To drink sack and submit,

And not show our wit

By our prating, but silence and thinking;

Let the politic Jews

Read diurnals and news,

And lard their discourse,

With a comment that's worse;

That which pleaseth me best

Is a song or a jest,

And my obedience I'll show by my drinking. Me that drinks well, does sleep well; he that sleeps well, doth think well; [must drink well. He that thinks well, does do well; he that does well,

THE SAFE ESTATE.

How happy a man is he,
Whose soul is quiet and free,

And liveth content with his own!

That does not desire

To swell nor aspire,

To the coronet nor to the crown?

He doth sit and devise,

Those mushrooms that rise,

But disturbs not his sleep;

At the coil that they keep,

Both in country and town,

In the plain he sits safe,

And doth privately laugh,

At high thoughts that are tumbling down.

His heart and his head are at rest,
And he sleeps with a sorrowless breast,

That aspires not to sit at the helm ;

The desires of his mind,

To's estate are confin'd,

And he lets not his brains to o'erwhelm.

He's for innocent sport,

And keeps off from the court,

And if sad thoughts arise,
He does only devise

With sack to repel 'um.
Though the times do turn round,
He doth still keep his ground,

Both in a republic and realm.

He wears his own head and ears,
And he tipples in safety with 's peers,
And harmlessly passeth his time;

If he meet with a cross,

A full bowl he doth toss,

Nor his wealth nor his wit are his crime. He doth privately sit

With his friend clubbing wit,

And disburd'ning their breasts
Of some innocent jests,

And not higher doth climb.
He smiles at the fate

Of those courters of state,

That fall down 'cause their thoughts are sublime.

But princes and nobles are still,

Not tenants for life, but at will,

And the giddy-brain'd rout is their lord;

He that's crowned to-day,

A sceptre to sway,

And by all is obey'd and ador'd,

Both he and his crown

In a trice are thrown down,
For an act just and good,
If mis-understood

Or an ill-relish'd word;
While he that scorns pelf,
And enjoys his own self,

Is secure from the vote or the sword.

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For those grand cords that man to man do twist,
Now are not honesty and love,

But self and interest.

Io th' interim,
Fill to the brim,

Travelling will make us weary ;
Since th' journey's great,
And hurts our feet,
Bacchus shall be
A horse for me,

He's strong enough to carry.

THE PRISONERS.

WRITTEN WHEN 0. C. ATTEMPTED TO BE KING.

THE POLITICIAN.

WRITTEN IN 1649.

What madness is't for him that's wise

To be so much self-hating?
Himself and his to sacrifice,

By meddling still with things too high,
That don't concern but gratify

His lechery of prating.
What is't to us who's in the ruling power ?
While they protect, we're bound t' obey,

But longer not an hour.
Nature made all alike at first,

But men that fram'd this fiddle
Of government made best and worst,
And high and low, like various strings,
Each man his several ditty sings,

To tune this state down diddle.
In this grand wheel, the world, we're spokes made
But that it may still keep its round, [all,

Some mount while others fall.
The blinded ruler, that by night

Sits with his host of bill-men
With their chalk'd weapons that affright
The wond'ring clown that haps to view
His worsbip and his gowned crew,

As if they sate to kill men.
Speak him but fair, he'll freely let you go;
And those that on the high rope dance,

Will do the same trick too.
I'll ne'er admire
That fatuous fire,

That is not what it seems;
For those, that now to us seem higher,
Like painted bubbles blown i' th'air,
By boys seem glorious and fair,

'Tis but in boys' esteems.
Rule of itself's a toil, and who would bear it,
But that 'twixt pride and avarice

And close revenge they'll share it.
Since all the world is but a stage,

And every man a player,
They're fools that lives or states engage;
Let's act and juggle as others do,
Keep what's our own, get others' too,

Play whiffler, clown, or mayor.
For he that sticks to what his heart calls just,
Becomes a sacrifice and prey

To the prosperous whirligig's lust.
Each wise man first lest loves himself,

Lives close, thinks, and obeys,
Makes not his soul a slave Lo's pelf,

Nor idle squanders it away,
To cram their maws that taxes lay

On wbat he does or says:

Come, a brimmer, (my bullies) drink whole ones or

Now healths have been voted down; [nothing, 'Tis sack that can heat us, we care not for clothing, A gallon's as warm as a gown:

'Cause the parliament sees,

Nor the former nor these,
Could engage us to drink their health;

They vote that we shall

Drink no healths at all,
Nor to king nor to common-wealth, [stealth.
So that now we must venture to drink 'em by
But we've found out a way that's beyond all their

To keep up good fellowship still; [thinking,
We'll drink their destruction that would destroy

drinking,
Let 'em vote that a health if they will.

Thuse men that did fight,

And did pray day and night
For the parliament and its attendant,

Did make all that bustle

The king out to jostle,
And bring in the independent,

But now we all clearly see what was the end on't.
Now their idol's thrown down, with their sooterkin

also,
About which they did make such a pother;
And tho' their contrivance made one king to fall so,
We have drunk ourselves into another.

And now (my lads!) we

May still cavaliers be,
In spite of committee's frown;

We will drink, and we'll sing,

And each health to our king,
Shall be royally drunk in the crown,

Which shall be the standard in every town.
Those politic would-bes do but show themselves

That other men's calling invade, (asses,
We only converse with pots and with glasses,
Let the rulers alone with their trade.

The lion of the Tower

Their estates does devour,
Without showing law for't or reason;

Into prison we get,

For the crime called debt,
Where our bodies and brains we do season,

And that is ne'er taken for murther or treason.
Where our ditties still be, “Give 's more drink!

give 's more drink, boys!”
Let those that are frugal take care ;
Our gaolers and we will live by our chink, boys.
While our creditors live by the air.

Here we lie at our ease,

And get craft and grease,
Till we've merrily spent all our store;

Then as drink brought us in,

'Twill redeem us again; We got in because we were poor, And swear ourselves out on the very same score,

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