By Heav'n, and all its Gods I swear,
Or if a greater Oath there be,
There's not a God inhabits there
But what would Barter all his Heav'n for thee.
Ev'n Jove himself, their Father and their King,
Would leave his Grandeur and his Throne
And turn a Bird, a Beast, or any thing;
Might he possess but thee alone.

I swear there is no greater Happiness,
Or if there be, I can no greater guess,
Then 'tis to sit and gaze
On the rare Beauties of thy face:
Ev'n Heav'n it self would that fair Prospect prize
And look for ever with unwearied view,
And tho it look'd with all its Eyes
'Twould still confess 'em all too few.

They say, 'tis all the Heav'n the Blessed know
To view the Mirror of the Deity;
I'm sure 'tis all my Heav'n below
To look on thee,
That's here the Beatifick Sight to me,
And 'tis my Hell when I thy Presence must forgo.

To read my Destinies,
I'll not consult the Planets of the Skies,
But those more radiant Stars thine Eyes;
If these appear benign,
Let other Stars with any Aspect shine;
So we are in Conjunction,
I fear not theirs, nor what it can portend,
My Fates on that, not this depend,
They all depend on that alone.

I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead;
Much bread I not desire.
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold;
I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl
Even as a maltworm should,
And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.'
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have that bliss
Good ale doth bring men to;
And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls
Or have them lustily troll'd,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.