STAY, shut the gate! T’other quart, boys, ’tis not so late As you are thinking; The stars which you see in the hemisphere be Are but studs in your cheeks by good drinking; The sun’s gone to tipple all night in the sea, boys, To-morrow he’ll blush that he’s paler than we, boys; Drink wine, give him water, ’Tis sack makes us the boys. Fill up the glass, To the next merry lad let it pass; Come, away wi’t; Let’s set foot to foot and but give our minds to’t, ’Tis heretical sir, that doth slay wit; Then hang up good faces, let’s drink till our noses Give’s freedom to speak what our fancy disposes, Beneath whose protection now under the rose is. Drink off your bowl, ’Twill enrich both your head and your soul with Canary; For a carbuncled face saves a tedious race, And the Indies about us we carry; No Helicon like to the juice of good wine is, For Phoebus had never had wit that divine is, Had his face not been bow-dy’d as thine is and mine is. This must go round, Off with your hats till the pavement be crown’d with your beavers; A red-coated face frights a sergeant and his mace, Whilst the constables tremble to shivers. In state march our faces like some of that quorum, While the . . . do fall down and the vulgar adore ’um, And our noses like link-boys run shining before ’um. THE ROYALIST’S RESOLVE. From the Loyal Garland, 1686. Reprinted for the Percy Society. COME, drawer, some wine, Or we’ll pull down the sign, For we are all jovial compounders; We’ll make the house ring With healths to our King, And confusion light on his confounders. Since former committee Afforded no pity, Our sorrows in wine we will steep ’um; They force us to take Two oaths, but we’ll make A third, that we ne’er mean to keep ’um. And next, whoe’er sees, We’ll drink on our knees To the King; may he thirst that repines: A fig for those traytors That look to our waters, They have nothing to do with our wines. And next here’s three bowls To all gallant souls That for the King did and will venture; May they flourish when those That are his and our foes Are hang’d, and ram’d down to the center. And may they be found In all to abound, Both with Heaven and the country’s anger; May they never want fractions, Doubts, fears, and distractions, Till the gallows-tree frees them from danger. LOYALTY TURNED UP TRUMP, OR THE DANGER OVER. From the Loyal Garland, reprinted from a Black-Letter copy, printed 1686. Reprinted for the Percy society, 1850. IN vain ill men attempt us, Their day is out of date; The fates do now exempt us From what we felt of late. The nation is grown wiser Than to believe their shame; He that was the deviser Themselves begin to blame.