W H at though the ill times do run crosse to our will,
And Fortune still frown upon us,
Our hearts are our own, and shall be so still.
A fig for the plagues they lay on us;
Let us take t'other cup, to chear our hearts up,
And let it be purest Canary;
We'll ne'er shrink nor care, at the Crosses we bear,
Let them plague us untill they be weary.

What though we are made both Beggars and Slaves?
Let's endure it, and stoutly drink on't,
'Tis our comfort we suffer 'cause we won't be Knaves,
Redemption will come e're we think on't;
We must flatter and fear, those that over us are,
And make them believe that we love them,
When their Tyranny is past, we can serve them at last,
As they have serv'd those have been above them.

Let the Levites go preach for the Goose or the Pig,
To drink Wine at Christmas or Easter:
The Doctor may labour our lives to new trig,
And make Nature fast while we feast her;
The Lawyer may bawl, out his Lungs and his Gall
For Plaintiff, and for Defendant,
At his Book the Scholar lye, while with Plato he dye
With an ugly hard word at the end on't.

Then here's to the man that delights in sol fa ,
For Sack is his only Rozin.
A load of hey ho, is not worth a ha ha,
He's a man for my money that draws in;
Then a pin for the muck, and a pin for ill luck,
'Tis better be blithe and frolick,
Than sigh out our breath, and invite our own death
By the Gout, or the Stone, or the Collick.