Classic Poem

1

Nay perswade not, I've swore
We'l have one pottle more,
Though we run on the score,
And our credits do stretch for't,
To what end does a father,
Pine his body, or rather,
Damne his soul for to gather
Such store, but that he has this fetch for't,
That we sons should be high boyes,
And make it all fly boyes
And when he does dye boyes
Instead of a Sermon we'l sing him a catch for't.

2

Then hang the Dull wit
Of that white-liverd cit,
That goodfellows does hit
In teeth with a rednose,
May his nose look blew
Or any dreadfuller hue,
That may speak him untrue,
And disloyal unto the headnose,
'Tis the scarlet that graces,
And sets out our faces,
And that nature base is,
That esteems not a Coppernose more then a leadnose.

3

All the world keeps a round,
First our fathers abound
In wealth and buy ground,
And then leave it behind 'um,
We're straight put in black,
Where we mourne and drink sack,
And do t'other knack
While they sleep in their graves we ne're mind 'um,
Thus we scatter the store,
As they rack'd it before
And as for the poor,
We enrich them as fast as our fathers did grind 'um.