All soft and sweet the Maid appears, With looks that know no Art; And though she yields with Trembling Fears, She yields with all her Heart. _The_ PRESBYTERS _Gill_. [Music] Hang the Presbyters Gill, Bring a Pint of Sack, _Will_, More Orthodox of the two; Though a slender Dispute, Will strike the Elf Mute, He's one of the honester Crew. In a Pint there's small heart, Sirrah, bring us a Quart, There's substance and vigour met; 'Twill hold us in play, Some Part of the Day, But we'll sink him before Sun-set. The daring old Pottle, Does now bid us Battle, Let's try what his strength can do; Keep your Ranks, and your Files, And for all his Wiles, We'll tumble him down stairs too. The Stout Brested _Lombard_, His Brains ne'er incumbred, With drinking of Gallons three; _Trycongius_ was named, And by _CÊsar_ Famed, Who dubbed him Knight Cap-a-pee. If then Honour be in't, Why a Pox should be stint, Our selves of the fulness it bears? H'has less Wit than an Ape In the Blood of a Grape, Will not plunge himself o'er Head and Ears. Then Summon the Gallon, A stout Foe, and a Tall one, And likely to hold us to't; Keep but Coyn in your Purse, The Word is Disburse, I'll warrant he'll sleep at your Foot. See the bold Foe appears, May he fall that him Fears, Keep you but close Order, and then, We will give him the Rout, Be he never so stout, And prepare for his Rallying agen. Let's drain the whole Cellar, Pipes, Buts, and the Dweller, If the Wine floats not the faster; _Will_, when thou do'st slack us, By Warrant from _Bacchus_, We will Cane thy Tun-belly'd Master. _The Good_ FELLOW. [Music] A Pox on the Times, Let 'em go as they will, Tho' the Taxes are grown so heavy; Our Hearts are our own, And shall be so still, Drink about, my Boys, and be merry: Let no Man despair, But drive away Care, And drown all our Sorrow in Claret; We'll never repine, So they give us good Wine, Let 'em take all our Dross, we can spare it. We value not Chink, Unless to buy drink, Or purchase us Innocent Pleasure; When 'tis gone we ne'er fret, So we Liquor can get, For Mirth of it self is a Treasure: No Miser can be, So happy as we, Tho' compass'd with Riches he wallow; Day and Night he's in Fear, And ne'er without Care, While nothing disturbs the Good Fellow. Come fill up the Glass, And about let it pass, For Nature doth vacuums decline! Down the spruce formal Ass, That's afraid of his Face, We'll drink 'till our Noses do _Ph[oe]bus_ out-shine: While we've plenty of this, We can ne'er do amiss, 'Tis an Antidote 'gainst our ruin; And the Lad that drinks most, With Honour may boast, He fears neither Death, nor undoing. _The Jovial_ PRISONER, _by_ S. P. [Music]