With my back to the fire and my paunch to the table,
Let me eat,—let me drink as long as I am able:
Let me eat,—let me drink whate’er I set my whims on,
Until my nose is blue, and my jolly visage crimson.
The doctor preaches abstinence, and threatens me with dropsy,
But such advice, I needn’t say, from drinking never stops ye:—
The man who likes good liquor is of nature brisk and brave, boys,
“Well sung, my roystering Pibald,” cried Magog, striding up to him, and delivering him a sounding blow on the back—“thou art ever merry, and hast the most melodious voice and the lustiest lungs of any man within the Tower.”
“And thou hast the heaviest hand I ever felt on my shoulder, gigantic Magog,” replied Ribald; “so we are even. But come, pledge me in a brimmer, and we will toss off a lusty measure to the health of our sovereign lady, Queen Jane. What say you, Master Trusbut?—and you, good Hairun—and you, most melancholic Mauger, a cup of claret will bring the colour to your cheeks. A pot of wine, good dame, to drink the Queen’s health in. But whom have we yonder? Is that gallant thy companion, redoubted Magog?”
“By my faith he is a well-looking youth,” said Ribald—“but he seems to have eyes for no one excepting fair Mistress Cicely.”