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Had fhe bad me read homilies three times a day,
She perhaps had been humour’d with little to say ;
Lut, at night, to deny me my bottle of red,
Let her go to the devil !-- there's no more to be said.

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ITII an honest old friend, and a merry old forg,

And a fiask of old port, let me fit the night lorg;
And laugh at the malice of those who repine,
That they must swig porter, while I can drink wine.

I envy no mortal, though ever fo great,
Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate ;
But what I abhor, and efieem as a curse,
Is poorness of spirit, not poorness in purse.

Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay,
Let's merrily pass lifes remainder away ;
Upheld by our friends, we our focs may despise,
For the more we are envied, the higher we rise.







Book, a friend, a song, a glass,

A chate, yet laughter-loving lass,
To mortals various joys impart,
Inforın the sense, and warm the heart.

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Thrice happy they who, careless, laid
Beneath a kind-cmbowering fade,
With ro'y wreaths their temples crown,
In rosy wine their sorrows drown.

Mean while the Muses wake the lyre,
The Graces modet mirth inspire,
Good-natur'd humour, harmless wit ;
Well-temper'd joys, nor grave, nor light.

Let sacred Venus with her heir,
And dear Ianthe too be there.
Music and wine in concert move
With beauty and refining love.

There Peace fall spread her dove-like wing,
And bid her olives round us spring.
There Truth shall reign, a sacred guest!
And Innocence, to crown the reft.

Begone, ambition, riches, toys,
And splendid cares, and guilty joys:-
Give me a book, a friend, a glass,
And a chaste laughter-loving lafs.

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Why look with insolent disdain

On those undeck'd with wealth or state ? Can splendid robes, or beds of down,

Or costly gems that deck the fair, Can all the glories of a crown

Give health, or ease the brow of care ?

The scepter'd king, the burthen'd slave,

The humble, and the haughty die;
The rich, the poor, the base, the brave,

In duft, without distinction, lie.
Go search the tombs where monarchs rest,

Who once the greatest titles bore
The wealth and glory they possess’d,

And all their honours are no more.

So glides the meteor through the sky,

And spreads along a gilded train, But, when its short-liv'd beauties die,

Diffolves to common air again. So 'tis with us, my jovial souls :

Let friendship reign while here we stay; Let's crown our joys with flowing bowls:

When Jove us calls we must obey.

* An alteration of a poem, written by the rev. mr. Mathew (huiband of the celebrated Letitia) Pilkington, beginning, " Why, Lycidas, should man be vain."




"IVE me but a friend and a glass, boys,

I'll show ye what 'tis to be gay,
I'll not care a fig for a lass, boys,

Nor love my brisk youth away :
Give me but an honest fellow,
That's pleasanteft when he is mellow,

We'll live twenty-four hours a day.

'Tis woman in chains does bind, boys,

But 'tis wine that makes us free ; 'Tis woman that makes us blind, boys,

But wine makes us doubly see. The female is true to no man, Deceit is inherent to woman,

But none in a brimmer can be.

S O N G X.

Bbrow s

ID me, when forty winters more,

When from my head, a scanty store,

Lankly the wither'd trefies flow;
When the warm tide, that bold and strong

Now rolls impetuous on and free,
Languid and slow scarce steals along ;

Then bid me court sobriety.

Nature, who form’d the varied scene

Of rage and calm, of frost and fire, Unerring guide, could only mean

That age should reason, youth defire ;


Shall then that rebel man presume

(Inverting natures law) to seize The dues of age in youths high.bloom,

And join imposibilities?

No-let me waste the frolic May

In wanton joys and wild excess, In revcl sport, and laughter gay,

And mirth, and rosy chearfulness. Woman, the foul of all delights,

And wine, the aid of love, be near: All charms me that to joy incites,

And ev'ry she that's kind, is fair.


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YoLove' is then our duty,

TOUTH's the season made for joys,

Love is then our duty, She alone, who that employs, Well deserves her beauty.

Let's be gay,

While we may,
Beauty's a flower despis’d in decay.
Let us drink and sport to-day,

Ours is not to-morrow;
Love with youth fies swift away,
Age is nought but forrow.

Dance and fing,

Time's on the wing,
Life never knows the return of spring.

* In the Beggars Opera,


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