My Merry men all, that drink with glee
This fanciful Philosophy,
       &nbspPray tell me what good is it?
If antient Nick should come and take,
The same across the Stygian Lake,
       &nbspI guess we ne'er should miss it.


Away, each pale, self-brooding spark
That goes truth-hunting in the dark,
       &nbspAway from our carousing!
To Pallas we resign such fowls—
Grave birds of wisdom! ye're but owls,
       &nbspAnd all your trade but mousing!


My merry men all, here's punch and wine,
And spicy bishop, drink divine!
       &nbspLet's live while we are able.
While Mirth and Sense sit, hand in glove,
This Don Philosophy we'll shove
       &nbspDead drunk beneath the table!