This page needs to be proofread.
Thus shall our healths do others good,
Whilst we ourselves do all we would;
For freed from envy and from care,
What would we be? but what we are.
'Tis the plump grape's immortal juice
That does this happiness produce;
And will preserve us free together,
Maugre mischance or wind and weather.
Then let Old WINTER take his course,
And roar abroad till he be hoarse;
And his lungs crack with ruthless ire;
It shall but serve to blow our fire.
Let him our little castle ply
With all his loud artillery:
Whilst Sack and Claret man the fort,
His fury shall become our sport.
