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. Loves Anarchy
2. To a coy Lady
3. The Commoners
4. The Leveller
5. The Safe Estate

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