We have frolic rounds, We club and away, Id est commune notandum. The blades that want cash, Have credit for crash, They'll have sack whatever it cost 'em; They do not pay Manet alta mente repostum. Who ne'er fails to drink All clear from the brink, With a smooth and even swallow, I'll offer at his shrine, And call it divine, Et erit mihi magnus Apollo. He that drinks still, And ne'er has his fill, Hath a passage like a conduit : The sack doth inspire In rapture and fire, Sic ather æthera fundit. When you merrily quaff, And slily offer to pass ye, Give their nose a twitch, And kick 'em in the breech, Nam componuntur ab asse. I have told you plain, 'And will tell you again, Be he furious as Orlando, He is an ass That from hence doth pass, Nisi bibit ab ostia stando. SONG XXX. * BY MR. PHILIPS. COME fill me a glass, fill it high, A bumper, a bumper I'll have; He's a fool that will flinch, I'll not bate him an inch, Here's a health then to those jolly souls, Who like me will ne'er give o'er; Who no danger controuls, but will take off their bowls, And merrily stickle for more. Drown reason, and all such weak foes, I scorn to obey her command; Could she ever suppose I'd be led by the nose, * Mr. Nichols, from many circumstances, has little doubt but this convivial song was by the author of The Splendid Shilling.' (See his Select Collection of Poems, iv. 281.) But it seems to have appeared at a too early period to be safely ascribed to that writer. It is more probably, the production of that Philips who was nephew to Milton, and author of the Theatrum Poetarum,' and several poetical performances. Reputation's a bugbear to fools, A foe to the joys of dear drinking, Tell 'em all, I'll have six in my hand, 'Tis in vain to command, the fleeting sand Come, my lads, move the glass, drink about, We'll set foot to foot, and drink it all out, If once we grow sober, we die. SONG XXXI. RAIL no more, ye learned asses, Fill them higher still, and higher, Shallow draughts perplex the brain ; Sipping quenches all our fire, Bumpers light it up again. Draw the scene for wit and pleasure, We for thinking have no leisure, Manly mirth is our employ : We'll the present hour engage; With applause we'll quit the stage. SONG XXXII. THE TIPLING PHILOSOPHERS.* DIOGENES Surly and proud, Who snarl'd at the Macedon youth, He chose for his mansion a tub, Heraclitus would never deny A bumper to comfort his heart, Democritus always was glad To tipple and cherish his soul; And would laugh like a man that was mad, The author afterwards * Consisted originally of but six verses. inserted a number of additional stanzas, of which, those included within crotchets have been sometimes printed as part of the song. The whole is contained in a little pamphlet, intitled Wine and Wisdom, or the Tipling Philosophers, a lyric poem.' Lond. 1710. As long as his cellar was stor❜d, At those that were sober he'd laugh, [Wise Solon, who carefully gave But, drinking, much talk would decline, Because 'twas the custom of fools To prattle much over their wine.] [Old Socrates ne'er was content, Till a bottle had heighten'd his joys, Who in's cups to the oracle went, Or he ne'er had been counted so wise: . Late hours he certainly lov'd, Made wine the delight of his life, Or Xantippe would never have prov'd Such a damnable scold of a wife.] [Grave Seneca, fam'd for his parts, |