Poem by Alexander Brome

A Round

SIt round, sit round, leave musing and thinking,
Hang caring and working, let's fall to our drink∣ing;
The works of our hands
Shall purchase no lands,
But in spight of all care wee'l be frolick;
He that does the glass skip,
May he die of the pip,
Or be lowsie that none shall endure him;
Or be plagu'd with the stone or the cholick,
And find ne'r a Surgeon to cure him.

1. To his Mistress (LAdy you'l wonder when you see)
2. Copernicus
3. The Leveller
4. The Saints Encouragement
5. To a Widow

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