We do forget we are in debt When we with liquor are warmed; We dare out-face the Sergeant’s Mace, [p. 76.] And Martiall Troops though armed. The _Swedish_ King much honour did win, And valiant was as _Hector_; Yet we can be as valiant as he, With a cup of _Apollo’s_ Nectar.
Let the worlds slave his comfort have, And hug his hoards of treasure, Till he and his wish meet both in a dish, So dies a miser in pleasure. ’Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm, We scorn this greedy conjecture; ’Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commend This cup of _Apollo’s_ Nectar.
The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot, Wherewith we keep a quarter; Enough for to choak with fire and smoak The Great _Turk_ and the _Tartar_. Our faces red, our ensignes spread, _Apollo_ is our Protector: To rear up the Scout, to run in and out, And drink up this cup of Nectar.
34. Welcome, welcome again to thy wits, This is a Holy day: I’le have no plots nor melancholly fits, But merrily passe the time away: They are mad that are sad; Be rul’d, by me, And none shall be so merry as we; The Kitchin shall catch cold no more, And we’l have no key to the Buttery dore, The fidlers shall sing, And the house shall ring, And the world shall see What a merry couple, Merry couple, We will be.
EDITORIAL POSTSCRIPT: 1.—ON THE “AUTHOR” OF _AN ANTIDOTE AGAINST MELANCHOLY_, 1661.
Thanks be to the worthy bookseller, George Thomason,[8] for prudence in laying aside the “tall copy” of this amusing book, from which we make our transcript of text and engraving. Probably it did not exceed two shillings, in price; (at least, we have seen that Anthony à Wood’s uncropt copy of “_Merry Drollery_,” 1661, is marked in contemporary manuscript at “1s. 3d.,” each part). The title says:—
_These witty Poems, though sometime [they]_ _may seem to halt on crutches,_ _Yet they’l all merrily please you_ _for your charge, which not much is._
Who was the “N. D.” to whose light labours we are indebted for the compounding of these “Witty Ballads, jovial Songs, and merry Catches” in Pills warranted to cure the ills of Melancholy, had not hitherto been ascertained[9]; or whether he wrote anything beside the above couplet, and the humorous address To the Reader, beginning,