We do not suffer here alone,
Though we are beggar'd, so's the King;
'Tis sin t' have wealth when he has none,
Tush! poverty's a royal thing!
When we are larded well with drink,
Our head shall turn as round as theirs,
Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink
Clean down the wind like Cavaliers.

Fill this unnatural quart with sack,
Nature all vacuums doth decline;
Ourselves will be a zodiac,
And every mouth shall be a sign.
Methinks the travels of the glass
Are circular, like Plato's year;
Where everything is as it was
Let's tipple round: and so 'tis here.



Ballad: The New Courtier



By Alex. Brome. 1648.


Since it must be so
Then so let it go,
Let the giddy-brain'd times turn round;