( 5 )
Care, thou cancer of our joys,
Now the tyrant's reign is o'er;
Fill the merry bowl, my boys,
Join in Bacchanalian roar.
O'er the merry midnight bowl,
O how happy we will be!
Day was made for vulgar souls,
Night, my boys, for you and me.
Seize the villain, plunge him in;
See the hated miscreant dies;
Mirth will all thy train come in,
Banish sorrow, tears, and sighs.
BECONE, DULL CARE.
Begone, dull care, I pr’ythee begone from me,
Begone, dull care, thou and I shall never agree;
Long time thou hast been tarrying here,
And fain thou wouldst me kill,
But Pfaith, dull care,
Thou never shalt have thy will.
Too much care will make a young man grey,