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Ye soldiers so stout,
With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin,
Who make such a rout
Of all

your commanders
Who serv'd us in Flanders,
And eke at the Boyne :

Come leave off your rattling

Of sieging and battling, And know you'd much better to sleep in whole bonés ;

Were you sent to Gibraltar,

Your note you'd soon alter, And wish for good claret, and bumpers, 'squire Jones.

Ye clergy so wise, Who myst'ries profound can demonstrate most clear,

How worthy to rise !

You preach once a week,
But
your

tithes never seek
Above once in a year :

Come here without failing,

And leave off your railing 'Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones ;

Says the text so divine,

What is life without wine ? Then away with the claret, a bumper, 'squire Jones.

Ye lawyers so just,
Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead,

How worthy of trust !

You know black from white, Yet prefer wrong to right, you

chance to be fee'd :

As

Leave musty reports,

And forsake the king's courts, Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones ;

Burn Salkeld and Ventris,

With all your damn'd entries, And

away with the claret, a bumper, 'squire Jones.

Ye physical tribe, Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace,

Whene'er you prescribe

Have at your devotion

Pills, bolus, or potion,
Be what will the case :

Pray where is the need

To purge, blister, and bleed?
When ailing yourselves the whole faculty owns,

That the forms of old Galen

Are not so prevailing As mirth with good claret, and bumpers, 'squire Jones.

Ye fox-hunters eke,
That follow the call of the horn and the hound,

Who your ladies forsake,

Before they're awake,

To beat up the brake Where the vermin is found :

Leave Piper and Blueman,

Shrill Duchess and Trueman; No music is found in such dissonant tones :

your ears With the songs of the spheres, Hark away to the claret, a bumper, 'squire Jones.

Would

you ravish

SONG XXIX.

IN THE PRAISE OF SACK.

BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT.*

Listen all,

I

pray,
To the words I've to say,
In memory sure insert 'em ;

Rich wines do us raise

To the honour of bays ;
Quem non fecere disertum ?

Of all the juice

Which the gods produce,
Sack shall be prefer'd before 'em ;

'Tis sack that shall

Create us all
Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.

We abandon all ale,

And beer that is stale,
Rosa Solis and damnable hum;

But we will crack

In the praise of sack,
'Gainst omne quod exit in um.

* This song is inserted in Beaumont's poems, and his name is here prefixed to it on the authority of an old manuscript copy in the Harleian library.

This is the wine

Which in former time Each wise one of the Magi,

Was wont to carouse

In a frolicsome blouse, Recubans sub tegmine fagi.

Let the hop be their bane,

And a rope be their shame, Let the gout and the cholic pine 'em,

That offer to shrink

In taking their drink, Seu Græcum, sive Latinum..

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There's no such disease

As he that doth please His palate with beer for to shame us;

'Tis sack makes us sing,

Hey down a down ding, Musa paulo majora canamus.

He is either mute,

Or does poorly dispute, That drinks not wine as we men do ;

The more a man drinks,

Like a subtile sphinx, Tantum valet iste loquendo.

'Tis true our souls,

By the lousy bowls
Of beer that doth naught but swill us,

Do go into swine,

(Pythagoras 'tis thine) Nam xos mutastis et illas.

When I've sack in

my

brain
I'm in a merry vein,
And this to me a bliss is;

Him that is wise

I can justly despise,
Mecum confertur Ulysses ?

How it cheers the brains !

How it warms the veins !
How against all crosses it arms us !

How it makes him that's poor

Courageously roar,
Et mutatas dicere formas.

Give me the boy,

My delight and my joy,
To my tantum that drinks his tale :

By sack he that waxes,

In our syntaxis,
Est verbum personale.

Art thou weak or lame,

Or thy wits to blame?
Call for sack and thou shalt have it;

'Twill make him rise,

And be very wise,

Cui vim natura negavit. VOL. II.

D

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