Sobriety and study breeds

Suspicion in our acts and deeds,

The downright drunkard no man heeds:
Give me but sack, tobacco store,
A drunken friend, a little whore ;
Provide me these, I'll ask no more.

JOHN CLEVELAND (1613-1658).

49

SONG IN A SIEGE

FILL, fill the goblet full with sack!

I mean our tall black-jerkin Jack,
Whose hide is proof 'gainst rabble rout
And will keep all ill weathers out.

What though our plate be coin'd and spent?

Our faces next we'll send to the mint:
And, 'fore we'll basely yield the town,
Sack it ourselves and drink it down!

Accurst be he doth talk or think
Of treating, or denies to drink;
Such dry, hopsucking, narrow souls
Taste not the freedom of our bowls;
They only are besieged, whilst we
By drinking purchase liberty.

Wine doth enlarge and ease our minds,

Who freely drinks no thraldom finds.

Let's drink, then, as we used to fight,
As long as we can stand, in spite
Of Foe or Fortune! who can tell?
She with our cups again may swell;
He neither dares to die or fight,

Whom harmless fears from healths affright:
Then let us drink our sorrows down,

And ourselves up to keep the town!

ROBERT HEATH (fl. 1650).

50

DRINKING ON A RAINY DAY

OH, 'tis a rainy drinking day!

Come, let it pour:

We'll drink these clouds all day away,

Suck every show'r.

The envious earth shall not drink all, for we
Our plants will water too as well as she,

The clouds that fatness drop from heav'n
Descend to us,

Ev'n to invite us reach them to enliven

Our spirits thus:

Then, sink or swim, we'll moisten thirsty care,

And though the weather's foul, we'll drink it

fair.

ROBERT HEATH.

51

BACCHUS

COME jolly god Bacchus, and open thy store, Let the big-belly'd grapes of their burden be eased,

Let thy liberality freely flow o'er,

For 'tis by thy bounty that we are appeased, It is sack that we lack,

It is sack that we crave;

It is sack that we fight for, and sack we will have!

Let pining Heraclitus drink of his tear,

And snivelling Tymon lie sick in his cell; And let the coarse bumpkin preach law in his beer; But 'tis wine makes our fame and our glory to swell:

It is wine makes divine

All our wits, and renowns

The peasant with sceptres, the shepherd with

crowns.

He that spends his money for honour, and climbs

In the trees of triumph, may sit there and

pause;

All he gets for his praise is the error of times,

Nurst up by the Pandars of vulgar applause: But the gold that is sold

For Canary, brings wit,

And there is no honour compared to it.

Some love to wear satin and shine in their silk, Yet quickly their fashion will alter and vary; Sometime they'll eat mutton, sometime they'll drink milk,

But I am for ever in tune for Canary,

It is sack that doth make

All our wants to be nothing,

For we do esteem it both meat, drink, and clothing.

A green goose serves Easter, with gooseberries drest;

And July affords us a dish of green peason; A collar of brawn is New-year-tide's feast; But sack is for ever and ever in season: 'Twill suffice all the wise

Both at all times and places,

It is a good friend to all tempers and cases.

Then farewell metheglin, thou dreg of the hives, And cider, thou bastardly darling of summer; You dull the quick blood that Canary revives: Then fill me a pottle of sack in a rummer; For I'll drink till each chink

Be full, and 'tis but reason;

And then I shall have no room to harbour

treason.

HUGH CROMPTON (Al. 1657).

52

GOOD LIQUOR

Love, envy, rage, and fury rest,
And secretly repose,

Like hood-winkt falcons in my breast,
Until the ocean flows:

For want of quaffing cups you die,
And are as ill-prepared as I.

I'll feast you with my rhymes no more,
When once I cease to tipple;
Whene'er you bar the cellar door,
My Muse becomes a cripple;
As Luna (void of Sol) may wink,
So Clio must for want of drink.

Nor is't your ale and musty beer
That procreates my phrases.
'Tis wine that makes my Ela clear,
And worthy of your praises.
All beasts (but asses) love to chuse
The best of grass, and worst refuse.

'Tis not your wine that's mixt and blended With this and that receit;

That's first decayed and then amended;
From such I must retreat.

To Heaven's nectar I incline,

My bright Apollo's rasie wine.

HUGH CROMPTON.