I, I, this thumping tune I like a life; a Song, a Song to it! _One_Singes._ This Song. _The_Juice_of_Spanish_squeez'd_Grapes_is_It_ That makes a dull Braine so full of witt; The Lemonades cleere sparkling wine The grosser witts too, doth much refine.

Then to bee foxd[264] it is no crime, Since thickest and dull Braines It makes sublime. The Stillyards Reanish wine and Divells white, Who doth not in them sometimes take delight? If with Mimique Gestures you'le keep you from sadnes, Then drinke lusty Clarett twill put you in Madnes; And then to settle you no hopes in Beer But wholesome Potts of Scotch ale though its deere. _Cap_.

But looke you, Child, you say the Divells white in your Song. You have beene ill catechiz'd, Boy, for a _White_Divell_ is but a poeticall fiction[265]; for the Divell, God bless us, Child, is blacke. _Boy_.