Song XLI. A Round

Sit round, sit round, leave musing and thinking,
Hang caring and working, let's fall to our drinking;
The works of our hands
Shall purchase no lands,
But in spight of all care wee'l be frolick;
He that does the glass skip,
May he die of the pip,
Or be lowsie that none shall endure him;
Or be plagu'd with the stone or the cholick,
And find ne'r a Surgeon to cure him.