Song VII. The Mock-Song by T. J.

Hold, hold, quaffe no more,
But restore
If you can, what you've lost by your drinking,
Three Kingdoms and Crowns,
With their Cities and Towns,
While the King and his progeny's sinking.
The studs in your cheeks have obscur'd his star boyes,
Your drinking mischarriages in the late war boyes,
Have brought his prerogative now to the bar boyes.

Throw, throw down the glass,
He's an Ass
That extracts all his worth from Canry;
That valour will shrink
That's only good in drink,
'Twas the cup made the camp to miscarry.
You thought in the world, there's no power could tame ye,
You tippled and whor'd till the foe overcame ye,
Gods nigs, and ne'r stir, Sir, has vanquish'd God damm me.

Fly, fly from the Coast,
Or you're lost,
And the water will run where the drink went,
From hence you must slink
If you have no chink;
'Tis the course of the royal Delinquent.
You love to see Beer-bowls turn'd over the thumb well, well;
You like three fair Gamesters, four Dice, & a Drum
But you'd as lief see the Devil as Fairfax or Cromwel.

Drink, drink not the round
You'l be drown'd
In the source of your sack and your sonnets:
Try once more your fate
For the King against the State,
And go barter your beavers for bennets.
You see how they're charm'd by the Kingdoms inchanters,
And therefore pack hence to Virginia for planters;
For an Act and two Redcoats will rout all the ranters.