Classic Poem

1

Prithee ben't so sad and serious,
Nothing's got by grief or care,
Melancholy's too imperious,
Where it comes 'twill domineer,
If thou hast a cloudy breast,
In which thy cares would build a nest,
Then drink good sack, 'twill make thee rest,
Where sorrows come not near.

2

Be it businesse, love, or sorrow,
That possesses thus thy mind,
Bid them come again to morrow,
We are now to mirth inclin'd,
Fill thy cup and drown them all,
Sorrows still do for liquor call,
We'l make this Bacchus festival
And cast our cares behind.

3

He that has a heart that's drowsy
Shall be surely banished hence;
We'l shun him as a man that's lowsy,
He's of dangerous consequence,
And he that's silent like a block,
Deserves to be made a laughing stock,
Let all good fellows shun that rock,
For fear they forfeit sence.

4

Still those clocks, let time attend us,
We'l not be to howers confind,
We'l banish all that may offend us,
Or disturb our mirth design'd,
Let the glasse still run its round
And each good-fellow keep his ground
And if there be any flincher found,
We'l have his soul new coyn'd.