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Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)

The Troper


COme, come, let us drink,
'Tis in vain to think,
Like fools on grief or sadness;
Let our money fly
And our sorrows die,
All worldly care is madness;
But Sack and good cheer
Will in spite of our fear,
Inspire our souls with gladness.


Let the greedy clowns
That do live like hounds,
That know neither bound nor measure
Lament each loss,
For their wealth is their cross,
Whose delight is in their treasure,
But we that have none,
Will usetheirs as our own,
And spend it at our pleasure.


Troul about the bowl,
The delight of my soul,
And to my hand commend it.
A fig for chink,
'Twas made to buy drink;
Before that we go we'l end it:
When we've spent our store,
The land will yield us more,
And jovially we will spend it.

Alexander Brome's other poems:
  1. The Cavalier
  2. The Hard Heart
  3. The Reformation
  4. The Libertine
  5. The Prodigal

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