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A Tankard of Ale |
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But I'll not do so, how ere the world go
So long as I've money in store I scorne for the faile, go fils up more Ale,
For he that made three made four.
Why sit you thus sadly, because I call madly,
I mean not to leave in the lurch, My reckoning I'll pay ere I go away,
Else hang me as high as a Church. Perhaps you will say, this is not the way,
They must pine that in this world will thrive; No matter for that, we'll laugh and be fat,
For he that made four made five.
To those my good friend my love so extends,
I cannot truly express it; When with you I meet, your words are so sweet,
I am unwilling to misse it. I hate all base slaves that their money saves,
And all those that use base tricks, For with jovial blades, I'm merry as the Maids,
For he that made five made six.
Then drink round about till sorrow be drowned,
And let us sing hey downe a derry, I cannot insure, to sit thus demure,
For hither I came to be merry. Then pluck up good heart before we depart,
With my Hostesse we will make it even, For I am set a madding, and still will be adding,
For he that made six made seven.
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