Song XVII. Mirth

When our brains well liquor'd are,
Then we charm asleep our care,
Then we accompt Machiavil a fool with his plots,
And cry there's no depth, But the bottom o'th' pots,
Then Hector compar'd with us, will be
But a coward, and Craesus beggarly:
Then with songs our voices we raise,
And circle our Temples with bayes;
Then Honour we account but a blast of Wind,
And trample all things in our mind.
The valiant at arms,
That are led by fond charms,
Get their honour with harms,
While he that takes up
A plentiful cup,
To no danger is brought,
But of paying his groat.
Then quickly come Lad and fill our cups full,
For since down we must all be laid,
'Tis held a good rule
In Bacchus free-school
'Tis better lie drunk then dead.