A PLAGUE of this fooling and plotting of late,

What a pother and stir has it kept in the State;
Let the rabble run mad with suspicions and fears,
Let them scuffle and jar, till they go by the ears;
Their grievances never shall trouble my pate,
So I can enjoy my dear bottle at quiet.

What coxcombs were those who would barter their ease

And their necks for a toy, a thin wafer and mass;
At old Tyburn thay never had needed to swing,
Had they been but true subjects to drink and their king;
A friend and a bottle is all my design;
He has no room for treason, that's top-full of wine.

I mind not the members and makers of laws,

Let them sit or prorogue, as his majesty please;
Let them damn us to woollen,^[2] I'll never repine
At my lodging when dead, so alive I have wine;
Yet oft in my drink I can hardly forbear
To curse them for making my claret so dear.

I mind not grave asses who idly debate

About right and succession, the trifles of state;
We've a good king already; and he deserves laughter
That will trouble his head with who shall come after;
Come, here's to his health, and I wish he may be
As free from all care and all trouble as we.

What care I how leagues with the Hollander go?

Or intrigues betwixt Sidney and Monsieur D'Avaux?