Now, every Fat man I advise, That scarce can peep out of his eyes, Which being set, can hardly rise; [p. 73.] Drink off his Sack, and freely quaff: ’Twil make him lean, but me [to] laugh To tell him how —— ’tis on a staff. A CATCH. 25. Of all the _Birds_ that ever I see, The _Owle_ is the fairest in her degree; For all the day long she sits in a tree, And when the night comes, away flies she; To whit, to whow, to whom drink[’st] thou, Sir Knave to thou; This song is well sung, I make you a vow, [p. 73.] And he is a knave that drinketh now; Nose, Nose, Nose, and who gave thee that jolly red Nose? [Cinnamon and gin-ger,] Nutmegs and Cloves, and that gave thee thy jolly red Nose. A CATCH. 26. This Ale, my bonny Lads, is as brown as a berry, Then let us be merry here an houre, And drink it ere its sowre Here’s to the[e], lad, Come to me, lad; Let it come Boy, To my Thumb boy. Drink it off Sir; ’tis enough Sir; Fill mine Host, _Tom’s_ Pot and Toast. A CATCH. 27. What! are we met? come, let’s see If here’s enough to sing this Glee. Look about, count your number, Singing will keep us from crazy slumber; 1, 2, and 3, so many there be that can sing, The rest for wine may ring: Here is _Tom_, _Jack_ and _Harry_; Sing away and doe not tarry, Merrily now let’s sing, carouse, and tiple, Here’s _Bristow_ milk, come suck this niple, There’s a fault sir, never halt Sir, before a criple. A CATCH. 28. Jog on, jog on the Foot path-way, And merrily hen’t the stile-a; Your merry heart go’es all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a. Your paltry mony bags of Gold, What need have we to stare-for, When little or nothing soon is told, And we have the less to care-for? Cast care away, let sorrow cease, [p. 74.] A Figg for Melancholly; Let’s laugh and sing, or if you please, We’l frolick with sweet _Dolly_. A SONG. _Translated out of Greek._ 30. The parcht _Earth_ drinks the _Rain_, _Trees_ drink it up again; The _Sea_ the _Ayre_ doth quaff, _Sol_ drinks the _Ocean_ off; And when that Health is done, Pale _Cinthia_ drinks the sun: Why, then, d’ye stem my drinking Tyde, Striving to make me sad, I will, I will be mad. [p. 75.] A CATCH. 31. Fly, Boy, Fly, Boy, to the Cellars bottom: View well your Quills and Bung, Sir. Draw Wine to preserve the Lungs Sir; Not rascally Wine to Rot u’m. If the Quill runs foul, Be a trusty soul, and cane it; For the Health is such An ill drop will much profane it. UPON A WELCHMAN.