I count him no wit that is gifted in rayling And flurting at those that above him do sit; Whilst they do outwit him with whipping and jailing, His purse and his person must pay for his wit. But ’tis better to be drinking; If sack were reform’d to twelve-pence a quart I’d study for money to merchandise for’t, With a friend that is willing in mirth we would sport; Not a word, but we’d pay it with thinking. My petition shall be that Canary be cheaper, Without either custom or cursed excise; That the wits may have freedom to drink deeper and deeper, And not be undone whilst our noses we baptize; But we’ll liquor them and drench them. If this were but granted, who would not desire To dub himself one of Apollo’s own quire? And then we will drink whilst our noses are on fire, And the quart pots shall be buckets to quench them. A NEW DROLL. From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Edited by J. O. Halliwell. COME let’s drink, the time invites, Winter and cold weather; For to spend away long nights, And to keep good wits together. Better far than cards or dice, Isaac’s balls are quaint device, Made up with fan and feather. Of strange actions on the seas Why should we be jealous? Bring us liquor that will please, And will make us braver fellows Than the bold Venetian fleet, When the Turks and they do meet Within their Dardanellos. Valentian, that famous town, Stood the French man’s wonder; Water they employ’d to drown, So to cut their troops assunder; Turein gave a helpless look, While the lofty Spaniard took La Ferta and his plunder. As for water, we disclaim Mankind’s adversary; Once it caused the world’s whole frame In the deluge to miscarry; And that enemy of joy Which sought our freedom to destroy And murder good Canary. We that drink have no such thoughts, Black and void of reason: We take care to fill our vaults With good wine of every season; And with many a chirping cup We blow one another up, And that’s our only treason. Hear the squibs and mind the bells, The fifth of November; The parson a sad story tells, And with horror doth remember How some hot-brain’d traitor wrought Plots that would have ruin brought To King and every member. THE ROYALIST. A song made in the Rebellion. From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society, and edited by J. O. Halliwell.