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letra de alexander brome - the royalist - ghizela rowe

come, pass about the bowl to me
a health to our distressëd king!
though we’re in hold, let cups go free
birds in a cage may freely sing
the ground does tipple healths apace
when storms do fall, and shall not we?
a sorrow dares not show his face
when we are ships, and sack’s the sea

pox on this grief, hang wealth, let’s sing!
shall’s k!ll ourselves for fear of death?
we’ll live by th’ air which songs do bring;
our sighing does but waste our breath
then let us not be discontent
nor drink a glass the less of wine;
in vain thеy’ll think their plagues are spеnt
when once they see we don’t repine

we do not suffer here alone;
though we are beggared, 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 heads 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;
our selves 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

- ghizela rowe

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