They shall not mysse to have the blisse,
Good ale doth bringe men to.

And all poore soules that have scowred boules,
Or have them lustely trolde,

God save the lyves of them and their wyves,
Whether they be yonge or olde.
Backe and syde go bare, &c.

SONG LII.

THE BROWN JUG.

(Imitated from the Latin of Hieronymus Amaltheus.)

BY THE REV. FRANCIS FAWKES.

DEAR Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale)

Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul
As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl;
In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanc'd, as in dog-days he sat at his ease,
In his flower-woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrows away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

His body when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had resolv'd it again,

A potter found out in its covert so snug,

And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug ; Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale; So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.

SONG LIII.

THE MAD LOVER.

BY ALEXANDER BROME. *

I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink,
This many and many a year;

And those three are plagues enough, one would think,
For one poor mortal to bear.

'Twas drink made me fall into love,

And love made me run into debt;

And though I have struggled, and struggled, and strove, I cannot get out of them yet.

There's nothing but money can cure me,

And rid me of all my pain;

'Twill pay all my debts,

And remove all my lets;

And my mistress that cannot endure me,
Will love me, and love me again :

Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again.

* [This poetical champion of the cavaliers in the time of Charles F. is thought to have written much the greater part of those songs and epigrams which were published against the Rump-parliament.]

SONG LIV.

UPBRAID me not, capricious fair,
With drinking to excess;

I should not want to drown despair,
Were your indifference less.

Love me, my dear, and you shall find,
When this excuse is gone;

That all my bliss, when Chloe's kind,
Is fix'd on her alone.

The god of wine the victory
To beauty yields with joy ;
For Bacchus only drinks like me,
When Ariadne's coy.

SONG LV.

BY MR. WILLIAM WOTY.

My temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine,

And barter all joys for a goblet of wine :
In search of a Venus no longer I'll run,
But stop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.

Yet why this resolve to relinquish the fair?
'Tis a folly with spirits like mine to despair :
And pray, what mighty joys can be found in a glass,
If not fill'd to the health of a favourite lass.

'Tis woman, whose joys every rapture impart,
And lend a new spring to the pulse of the heart :
The miser himself (so supreme is her sway)
Grows a convert to love, and resigns her his key.

At the sound of her voice Sorrow lifts up her head,
And Foverty listens well pleas'd from her shed;
Whilst Age in half-ecstacy hobbling along,
Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her song.

Then fill me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard,
The largest, the deepest that stands on the board :
I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair,
'Tis the thirst of a lover, then pledge me who dare.

WITH Women and wine I defy every care,
For life without these is a bubble of air;
Each helping the other, in pleasure I roll,
And a new flow of spirits enlivens my soul.

Let grave sober mortals my maxims condemn,

I never shall alter my conduct for them ;

I care not how much they my measures decline,

Let them have their own humour-and I will have mine.

Wine, prudently us'd, will our senses improve; 'Tis the spring-tide of life, and the fuel of love And Venus ne'er look'd with a smile so divine,

As when Mars bound his head with a branch of the vine.

Then come, my dear charmer, thou nymph half divine!
First pledge me with kisses-next pledge me with wine :
Then giving, and taking, in mutual return,
The torch of our loves shall eternally burn.

But should'st thou my passion for wine disapprove,
My bumper I'll quit to be bless'd with thy love;
For rather than forfeit the joys of my lass,
My bottle I'll break, and demolish my glass.

SONG LVII.

BY WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.

ADIEU, ye jovial youths, who join
To plunge old Care in floods of wine;
And, as your dazzled eye-balls roll,
Discern him struggling in the bowl.

Not yet is hope so wholly flown,
Not yet is thought so tedious grown,
But limpid stream and shady tree
Retain, as yet, some sweets for me.

And see, through yonder silent grove,
See yonder does my Daphne rove: