By Alex. Brome. A.D. 1660.
LET’S leave off our labour, and now let’s go play,
For this is our time to be jolly;
Our plagues and our plaguers are both fled away,
To nourish our griefs is but folly:
He that won’t drink and sing
Is a traytor to’s King,
And so he that does not look twenty years younger;
We’ll look blythe and trim
With rejoicing at him
That is the restorer and will be the prolonger
Of all our felicity and health,
The joy of our hearts, and increase of our wealth.
’Tis he brings our trading, our trading brings riches,
Our riches brings honour, at which every mind itches,
And our riches bring sack, and our sack brings us joy,
And our joy makes us leap and sing,
Vive le Roy!