The Royalist - Poem by Alexander Brome
Come, pass about the bowl to me,
A health to our distressëd 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 show his face
When we are ships, and sack's the sea.
Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let's sing!
Shall's kill ourselves for fear of death?
We'll live by th' air which songs do bring;
Our sighing does but waste our breath.
Then let us not be discontent,
Nor drink a glass the less of wine;
In vain they'll think their plagues are spent,
When once they see we don't repine.
We do not suffer here alone;
Though we are beggared, 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 zodiac,
And every mouth shall be a sign.
Methinks the travels of the glass
Are circular, like Plato's year,
Where everything is as it was,
Let's tipple round, and so 'tis here.
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