Song I. The Royalist

Come, pass about the bowl to me,
A health to our distressed King;
Though we're in hold, let cups go free,
Birds in a cage may freely sing.
The ground does tipple healths apace,
When storms do fall, and shall not we;
A sorrow dares not shew its face,
When we are ships and sack's the sea.

Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let's sing,
Shall's kill our selves for fear of death?
We'l live by th' air which songs doth bring,
Our sighing does but wast our breath:
Then let us not be discontent,
Nor drink a glass the less of Wine;
In vain they'l think their plagues are spent,
When once they see we don't repine.

We do not suffer here alone,
Though we are beggar'd, so's the King;
'Tis sin t' have wealth, when he has none,
Tush! poverty's a Royal thing!
When we are larded well with drink,
Our heads shall turn as round as theirs,
Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink
Clean down the wind, like Cavaliers.

Fill this unnatural quart with sack;
Nature all vacuums doth decline,
Our selves will be a Zodiack,
And every mouth shall be a sign.
Me thinks the Travels of the glass,
Are circular like Plato's year,
Where every thing is as it was;
Let's tipple round; and so 'tis here.

Written in 1646.