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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.


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 I'faith, dull care,
Thou never shalt have thy will.

Too much care will make a young man grey,
And too much care will turn an old man to clay;