Catches, canons and drinking songs
Let the grave folks go preach that our lives are but short,
and tell us much wine speedy death does invite,
but we’ll be revenged beforehand with them for’t,
and crowd a life’s mirth in the space of a night,
then stand all about with your glasses full crowned,
till ev’rything else to our posture do grow,
till our cups and our heads, and the whole house go round,
and the cellar becomes where the chamber is now,
the Sun in the rays of his rich morning gown,
shall be rivalled by faces as bright as his own,
and wonder that mortals can fuddle away
more wine in a night than he water i’th day.