ANACREONTIC.

GAY Bacchus liking Estcourt's wine,
A noble meal bespoke us;
And for the guests that were to dine,
Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.

The god near Cupid drew his chair,
Near Comus, Jocus plac'd:
For wine makes Love forget its care,
And Mirth exalts a feast.

The more to please the sprightly god,
Each sweet engaging Grace
Put on some clothes to come abroad,
And took a waiter's place.

Then Cupid nam'd at every glass

A lady of the sky ;

While Bacchus swore he'd drink the lass, And had it bumper-high.

Fat Comus toss'd his brimmers o'er,

And always got the most; Jocus took care to fill him more,

Whene'er he miss'd the toast.

They call'd, and drank at every touch;

He fill'd and drank again;

And if the gods can take too much, 'Tis said, they did so then.

Gay Bacchus little Cupid stung,
By reckoning his deceits;

And Cupid mock'd his stammering tongue,
With all his staggering gaits:

And Jocus droll'd on Comus' ways,

And tales without a jest ;

While Comus call'd his witty plays

But waggeries at best.

Such talk soon set them all at odds;
And, had I Homer's pen,

I'd sing ye, how they drank like gods,
And how they fought like men.

To part the fray, the Graces fly,
Who make 'em soon agree;
Nay, had the Furies selves been nigh,
They still were three to three.

Bacchus appeas'd, rais'd Cupid up,
And gave him back his bow;
But kept some darts to stir the cup
Where sack and sugar flow.

Jocus took Comus' rosy crown,

And gaily wore the prize,

And thrice in mirth he push'd him down, As thrice he strove to rise.

Then Cupid sought the myrtle grove,

Where Venus did recline;

And Venus close embracing Love,

They join'd to rail at wine.

And Comus loudly cursing wit,
Roll'd off to some retreat,
Where boon companions gravely sit
In fat unwieldy state.

Bacchus and Jocus, still behind,

For one fresh glass prepare; They kiss, and are exceeding kind, And vow to be sincere.

But part in time, whoever hear

This our instructive song;

For though such friendships may be dear, They can't continue long.

A FAIRY TALE,

IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH STYLE.

IN Britain's isle and Arthur's days,
When midnight faeries daunc'd the maze,
Liv'd Edwin of the green;
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,

Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Though badly shap'd he been.

His mountain back mote well be said
To measure heighth against his head,
And lift itself above:

Yet spite of all that nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dar'd to love.

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,
Could ladies look within;

But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art,
And, if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win.

Edwin, if right I read my song,
With slighted passion pac'd along
All in the moony light:

'Twas near an old enchaunted court, Where sportive faeries made resort To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd,
'Twas late, 'twas farr, the path was lost
That reach'd the neighbour-town;
With weary steps he quits the shades,
Resolv'd the darkling dome he treads,
And drops his limbs adown.

But scant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,
A trembling rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once an hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.

Now sounding tongues assail his ear,
Now sounding feet approachen near,
And now the sounds encrease;
And from the corner where he lay
He sees a train profusely gay

Come pranckling o'er the place.

But, trust me, gentles, never yet
Was dight a masquing half so neat,
Or half so rich before;

The country lent the sweet perfumes,
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its silken store.