Poem by Alexander Brome

The Club

1.

PRithee ben't so sad and serious,
Nothing's got by grief or care;
Melancholy's too imperious,
Where it comes 'twill domineer;
If thou hast a cloudy breast,
In which thy cares would build a nest;
Then drink good Sack, 'twill make the rest,
Where sorrows come not near.

2.

Be it business, love, or sorrow,
That possesses thus thy mind,
Bid them come again to morrow;
We are now to mirth inclin'd,
Fill thy cup and drown them all,
Sorrows still do for liquor call,
We'l make this Bacchus festival,
And cast our cares behind.

3.

He that has a heart that's drowsie,
shall be surely banished hence;
We'l shun him as a man that's lowsie,
He's of dangerous consequence:
And he that's silent like a block,
Deserves to be made a laughingstock,
Let all good fellows shun that rock,
For fear they forfeit sense.

4.

Still those clocks, let time attend us,
We'l not be to hours confin'd;
We'l banish all that may offend us,
Or disturb our mirth design'd;
Let the glass still run its round,
And each good-fellow keep his ground,
And if there be any flincher found,
We'l have his soul new-coyn'd.

1. To his Mistress (LAdy you'l wonder when you see)
2. The Damosel
3. The Wary Woer
4. On the Queens Arrival
5. On the Kings Return

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