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A Tankard of Ale |
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I'll place no happiness of mine A puling beauty still to court,
And say she's glorious and divine— The vintner makes the better sport;
And when I say, my dear, my heart,
I only mean it to the quart.
Love has no more prerogative
To make me desperate courses take,
Nor me t'an hermitage shall drive, I'll all my vows to th' goblet make ;
And if I wear a capuchoone,
It shall a tankard be or none.
'Tis wine alone that cheers the soul, But love and ladies make us sad;
I'm merry when I court the bowl,
While he who courts the madam's mad;
Then ladies wonder not at me,
For you are coy but wine is free. |
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IN PRAISE OF THE BOTTLE1
By Tom Brown (1663-1704)
What a plague d'ye tell me of the Papists' design ? Would to God you'd leave talking, and drink off your
wine. Away with your glass, sir, and drown all debate, Let's be loyally merry, ne'er think of the state.
1 From W. T. Merchant's " In Praise of Ale."
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