THE SAILOR's MEDLEY, SONG

Attend all, I pray, to the words I've to say, In tablet of mem'ry insert 'em. Rich wine do us raise to the honour of bays: Quam non fecere disertum? Tol de rol de rol lol lol lol lol.

Of all the brisk juice the gods can produce, Good claret preferr'd is before 'em; 'Tis claret shall strait happy mortals create, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.

We abandon all ale, and beer that is stale, Rosa solis, and damnable hum; But sparkling bright red shall raise up its head, Above omne quod exit in um.

This, this is the wine, which, in former time, Each wise-one of men they call'd Magi, Was wont to carouse in a chaplet of boughs, Recubans sub tegmine fagi.

Let the hope be their bane, let the rope be their shame, Let the gout and the cholic still pine 'em, That offer to shrink, in taking their drink, Sen Groecum sive Latinum.

Let the glass fly about till the botile is out, Let each do to each as he's done to; Avaunt those that hug th' abominable jug! Amongst us heteroclita sunto.

There's no such disease as he that doth please His palate with beer, for to shame us: 'Tis claret that brings Madam Fancy her wings And says—Musa, majora canamus.

He's either a mure, or does poorly dispute, That drinketh not wine as we men do: The more wine a man drinks, the more like subtle sphinx, Tantum valet isto loquendo.

Art thou weak, art thou lame, dost thou sigh after fame? Call for wine, and thou quickly shall have it: It will make the lame rise, it will make the sool wise, Cui vim Natura negavit.

The more wine in my brain, the more merry my vein; And this to me wisdom and bliss is: For him that's too wise I can Justly despise; Mecum confertur Ulysses.