Who violates the Customes, hurts the Health,
Not of one man, but all the Common-wealth.

That flow of Gallants which approach
To kisse thy hand from out the coach;
That fleet of Lackeyes, which do run
Before thy swift Postilion;
Those strong-hoof'd Mules, which we behold,
Rein'd in with Purple, Pearl, and gold,
And shod with silver, prove to be
The drawers of the axeltree.
Thy Wife, thy Children, and the state
Of Persian Loomes, and antique Plate:
All these, and more, shall then afford
No joy to thee their sickly Lord.

Who, railing, drives the Lazar from his door,
Instead of almes, sets dogs upon the poor.

Though from without no foes at all we feare;
We shall be wounded by the cloathes we weare.

Fill me a mighty Bowle
Up to the brink:
That I may drink
Unto my Johnsons soule.

Crowne it agen agen;
And thrice repeat
That happy heat;
To drink to Thee my Ben.

Well I can quaffe, I see,
To th'number five,
Or nine; but thrive
In frenzie ne'r like thee.

In the hope of ease to come,
Let's endure one Martyrdome.

Give me wine, and give me meate,
To create in me a heate,
That my Pulses high may beate.

Cold and hunger never yet
Co'd a noble Verse beget;
But your Boules with Sack repleat.

Give me these (my Knight) and try
In a Minutes space how I
Can runne mad, and Prophesie.

Then if any Peece proves new,
And rare, Ile say (my dearest Crew)
It was full enspir'd by you.

You aske me what I doe, and how I live?
And (Noble friend) this answer I must give:
Drooping, I draw on to the vaults of death,
Or'e which you'l walk, when I am laid beneath.

Up with the Quintill, that the Rout,
May fart for joy, as well as shout:
Either's welcome, Stinke or Civit,
If we take it, as they give it.

For thirty yeares, Tubbs has been proud and poor,
'Tis now his habit, which he can't give ore.