Poetry Archives

’Tis late and cold; stir up the fire;
Sit close, and draw the table nigher;
Be merry, and drink wine that’s old,
A hearty medecine ‘gainst a cold:
Your beds of wanton down the best,
Where you shall tumble to your rest;
I could wish you wenches too,
But I am dead and cannot do.
Call for the best the house may ring,
Sack, white, and claret, let them bring,
And drink apace, while breath you have;
You’ll find but cold drink in the grave:
Plover, partridge, for you dinner,
And a capon for the sinner,
You shall find ready when you’re up,
And your horse shall have his sup:
Welcome, welcome, shall fly round,
And I shall smile, though under ground.