Come, landlord, fill the flowing bowl
Until it doth run over;
For to-night we'll merry be,
To-morrow we'll be sober.

The man who drinketh small beer
And goes to bed quite sober,
Fades as the leaves do fade
That drop off in October.

But he who drinks just what he likes
And getteth half-seas over,
Will live until he dies perhaps,
And then lie down in clover.

The man who kisses a pretty girl
And goes and tells his mother,
Ought to have his lips cut off,
And never kiss another.