They shall not mysse to have the blisse, And all poore soules that have scowred boules, God save the lyves of them and their wyves, 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 It chanc'd, as in dog-days he sat at his ease, His body when long in the ground it had lain, 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, And those three are plagues enough, one would think, '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, 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, I should not want to drown despair, Love me, my dear, and you shall find, That all my bliss, when Chloe's kind, The god of wine the victory SONG LV. BY MR. WILLIAM WOTY. My temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine, And barter all joys for a goblet of wine : Yet why this resolve to relinquish the fair? 'Tis woman, whose joys every rapture impart, At the sound of her voice Sorrow lifts up her head, Then fill me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard, WITH Women and wine I defy every care, 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! But should'st thou my passion for wine disapprove, SONG LVII. BY WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. ADIEU, ye jovial youths, who join Not yet is hope so wholly flown, And see, through yonder silent grove, |