| | LXII | | | |
| | | |
| V | "Terence, this is stupid stuff: | | C | |
| You eat your victuals fast enough; | | | |
| There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, | | | |
| To see the rate you drink your beer. | | | |
| V | But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, | 5 | | |
| V | It gives a chap the belly-ache. | | | |
| The cow, the old cow, she is dead; | | C | |
| It sleeps well, the horned head: | | | |
| We poor lads, 'tis our turn now | | | |
| To hear such tunes as killed the cow. | 10 | C | |
| Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme | | | Q |
| Your friends to death before their time | | | |
| V | Moping melancholy mad: | | | |
| V | Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad." | | | |
| | | | | |
| V | Why, if 'tis dancing you would be, | 15 | | |
| V | There's brisker pipes than poetry. | | | |
| V | Say, for what were hop-yards meant, | | C | |
| V | Or why was Burton built on Trent? | | C | |
| Oh many a peer of England brews | | C | |
| V | Livelier liquor than the Muse, | 20 | | |
| And malt does more than Milton can | | C | |
| To justify God's ways to man. | | C | |
| Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink | | | |
| For fellows whom it hurts to think: | | | |
| Look into the pewter pot | 25 | | |
| To see the world as the world's not. | | | |
| And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past: | | | |
| V | The mischief is that 'twill not last. | | | |
| | | | | |
| Oh I have been to Ludlow fair | | | |
| And left my necktie God knows where, | 30 | | |
| And carried half way home, or near, | | | |
| Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: | | | |
| Then the world seemed none so bad, | | | |
| V | And I myself a sterling lad; | | | |
| And down in lovely muck I've lain, | 35 | | |
| V | Happy till I woke again. | | | |
| Then I saw the morning sky: | | | |
| Heigho, the tale was all a lie; | | | |
| The world, it was the old world yet, | | | |
| I was I, my things were wet, | 40 | | |
| V | And nothing now remained to do | | | |
| But begin the game anew. | | | |
| | | | | |
| V | Therefore, since the world has still | | | |
| Much good, but much less good than ill, | | | |
| V | And while the sun and moon endure | 45 | | |
| V | Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, | | | Q |
| V | I'd face it as a wise man would, | | | |
| V | And train for ill and not for good. | | | Q |
| 'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale | | | |
| Is not so brisk a brew as ale: | 50 | | |
| V | Out of a stem that scored the hand | | | |
| V | I wrung it in a weary land. | | | |
| V | But take it: if the smack is sour | | | |
| V | The better for the embittered hour; | | | |
| V | It should do good to heart and head | 55 | | |
| When your soul is in my soul's stead; | | | |
| And I will friend you, if I may, | | | |
| In the dark and cloudy day. | | | |
| | | | | |
| There was a king reigned in the East: | | | |
| V | There, when kings will sit to feast, | 60 | | |
| They get their fill before they think | | | |
| V | With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. | | | |
| He gathered all that springs to birth | | | |
| V | From the many-venomed earth; | | | Q |
| V | First a little, thence to more, | 65 | | |
| V | He sampled all her killing store; | | | Q |
| V | And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, | | | |
| V | Sate the king when healths went round. | | | |
| V | They put arsenic in his meat | | | |
| And stared aghast to watch him eat; | 70 | | |
| V | They poured strychnine in his cup | | | |
| And shook to see him drink it up: | | | |
| They shook, they stared as white's their shirt: | | | |
| V | Them it was their poison hurt. | | | |
| - I tell the tale that I heard told. | 75 | | |
| Mithridates, he died old. | | C | |
| | | | | |