| Hufty tufty the cap gun shouts
|
| Your whole life is inside out
|
| A cast of martinets, a whiff of Monsieur Mingo
|
| Horse outside, going down to Sligo
|
| So slaver and drivel like a child at mouth
|
| No more of this drunkenness
|
| In slavish Bacchus-born, I hate it to death
|
| Drunkenness
|
| Thy scurvy lungs with surfeiting be putrified
|
| Thy wrath be fatal to thy dearest friends
|
| A toucher, a toucher, for quaffing toy doth pass
|
| In cup, in can, in glass, drunkenness
|
| God Bacchus do him right and dub him knight
|
| Rise up Sir Robert Tosspot, Sir Robert Tosspot
|
| No more of this, I hate it to the death
|
| Drunkenness
|
| Deformer of the soul, abusing all the earth’s fine fruits
|
| In cellars and in vaults
|
| Let none commit their counsels unto thee
|
| Thy wrath be fatal to them, drunkenness
|
| Dropsies and watery tympanies haunt thee
|
| Thy lungs with surfeiting be putrified
|
| Odious stinking breath
|
| Slaver and drivel like a child at mouth
|
| Drunkenness
|
| Be poor and beggardly in thy old age
|
| Let thy own kinsmen laugh when thou complainest
|
| And many tears gain nothing but blind scoffs
|
| Drunkenness
|
| Hufty tufty the cap gun shouts
|
| Your whole life is inside out
|
| Drunkenness |