Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure.
The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.
Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour, He stood and counted them and cursed his luck; And then the clock collected in the tower Its strength, and struck.
Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies, But keep your fancy free.
But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts. And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts