Recreation for ingenious head-peeces, or, A pleasant grove for their wits to walk in of epigrams 700, epitaphs 200, fancies a number, fantasticks abundance : with their addition, multiplication, and division.

Canto, In the praise of Sack.

Listen all I pray, To the words I have to say, In memory sure insert um: Rich Wines doe us raise To the honour of Bayes, Quem non fecere disertum?

Of all the juice, Which the Gods produce, Sack shall be preferr'd before them; 'Tis Sack that shall Create us all, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.

We abandon all Ale, And Beer that is stale, Rosa-solis, and damnable hum: But we will rack In the praise of Sack, Gainst Omne quod exit in um.

This is the wine, Which in former time, Each wise one of the Magi Was wont to carouse In a frolick blouse. Recubans sub tegmine fagi.

Let the hop be their bane, And a rope be their shame Let the gout and collick pin 〈◊〉〈◊〉 That offer to shrink, In taking their drink, Seu Graecum, sive Latinum.

Let the glasse goe round, Let the quart-pot sound, Let each one doe as hee's done do: Avaunt yee that hugge The abominable Jugge, 'Mongst us Heteroclita sunto.

There's no such disease, As he that doth please His palate with Beer for to shame us: 'Tis Sack makes us sing, Hey down a down ding, Musa paulo majora canamus.

He is either mute, Or doth poorly dispute, That drinks ought else but wine O, The more wine a man drinks, Like a subtile Sphinx Tantum valet ille loquendo.

'Tis true, our soules, By the lowsie bowles Of Beer that doth nought but swill us, Doe goe into swine, (Pythagoras 'tis thine) Nam vos mutastis & illos.

When I've Sack in my brain, I'm in a merry vain, And this to me a blisse is: Him that is wise, I can justly despise: Mecum confertur Vlysses?

How it chears the brains, How it warms the vains, How against all crosses it arms us! How it makes him that's poor, Couragiously roar, Et mutatas dicere formas.

Give me the boy, My delight and my joy, To my tantum that drinks his tale: By Sack he that waxes In our Syntaxes. Est verbum personale.

Art thou weak or lame, Or thy wits to blame? Call for Sack, and thou shalt have it, 'Twill make thee rise, And be very wise, Cui vim natura negavit.

We have frolick rounds, We have merry go downs, Yet nothing 〈◊〉〈◊〉 done at randome, For when we are to pay, We club and away, Id est commune notandum.

The blades that want cash, Have credit for crash, They'll have Sack whatever it cost um, They doe not pay, Till another day, Manet alta mente repostum.

Who ne'r fails to drink, All clear from the brink, With a smooth and even swallow, I'll offer at his shrine, And call it divin•• Et erit mihi magnus Apollo.

He that drinks still, And never hath his fill, Hath a passage like a Conduit, The Sack doth inspire, In rapture and fire, Sic aether aethera fundit.

When you merrily quaffe, If any doe off, And then from you needs will passe the, Give their nose a twitch, And kick them in the britch, Non componuntur ab asse.

I have told you plain, And tell you again, Be he furious as Orlando, He is an asse, That from hence doth passe, Nisi bibit ad ostia stando.