7

BACK and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;

But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I am nothing a-cold;

I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead,

Much bread I not desire.

No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I would,

I am so wrapt and throughly lapt

Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, etc.

And Tib my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see

The tears run down her cheek.
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl,
Even as a maltworm should,

And saith, Sweetheart, I have taken my part Of this jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, etc.

Now let them drink, till they nod and wink
Even as good fellows should do;

They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.

And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,
Or have them lustily trowled,

God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.

Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

8

GOOD hostess, lay a crab in the fire, and broil a mess of souse-a:

That we may toss the bowl to and fro, and brinks them all carouse-a.

And I will pledge Tom Tosspot, till I be drunk

as a mouse-a.

Whoso will drink to me all day, I will pledge them all carouse-a.

Then we will not spare for any cost, so long as we be in house-a:

Then, hostess, fill the pot again, for I pledge. them all carouse-a.

ULPIAN FULWELL (fl. 1586).

9

"IO, BACCHUS! TO THY TABLE"

Sung by four servants, DROMIO, RISIO, HALFPENNY, and LUCIO.

Omnes. Io, Bacchus! to thy table

Drom.

Ris.

Half.

Luc.

Thou callest every drunken rabble,
We already are stiff drinkers,

Then seal us for thy jolly skinkers.
Wine, O wine,

O juice divine!

How dost thou the nowle refine!
Plump thou mak'st men's ruby faces,
And from girls can fetch embraces.
By thee our noses swell

With sparking carbuncle.
O the dear blood of grapes
Turns us to antic shapes,

Now to show tricks like apes,

Drom. Now lion-like to roar,

Ris.

Now goatishly to whore,

Half.

Luc.

Now hoggishly i' th' mire,
Now flinging hats i' th' fire.

Omnes. Io, Bacchus! at thy table

Make us of thy reeling rabble!

JOHN LYLY (1554?-1606).

10

COME, thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne !
In thy fats our cares be drown'd,
With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd:
Cup us, till the world go round,

Cup us, till the world go round!

WILLIAM SHAKespeare (1564-1616).

11

A SOLDIER'S SONG

AND let me the canakin clink, clink;
And let me the canakin clink:

A soldier's a man;

A life's but a span;

Why, then let a soldier drink!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.