Song XXIII (Th' Astrologers)

Th' Astrologers,
That trade in Starrs,
Tell me I have not long to live;
Yet do I cry;
Lo here am I,
Let fortune still
Do what she will,
I'll neither care nor grieve.

Fortune I know,
Is still my foe,
And lets me not grow fat, nor thrive;
But I, I vow,
Will never bow,
Nor doat and be
As blind as she,
But keep my self alive.

This I do know,
We all must go;
Though some go sooner, others later;
But why so fast?
There's no such hast;
Some post are gone,
We'l but jog on,
Bait first, and then walk after.

The clown and's beast
Make hast to rest,
But Lords and Courtiers sit up longer:
Before we part,
Fill t'other quart;
Wash t'other eye,
And then we'l try
Whe'r death or man be stronger.

In th' interim,
Fill to the brim;
Travelling will make us weary;
Since th' journey's great,
And hurts our feet,
Bacchus shall be
A horse for me,
He's strong enough to carry.