You may give this advice
To the wretched and wife,
But a lover like me

Will those precepts despise; I fcorn to give over

Were it in my power; Tho' esteem were deny'd me,

Yet her I'll adore.

A heart that's been touch'd Will some sympathy bear, 'Twill leffen my forrows

If she takes a share; I'll count it more honour In dying her flave, Than did her affections

The steadiness crave.

You may

tell her I'll be Her true lover, tho' she Should mankind despise

Out of hatred to me; 'Tis mean to give o'er,

'Cause we get no reward, She loft not her worth When I loft her regard; My love on an altar

More noble fhall burn,
I ftill will love on

Without hopes of return;
I'll tell her fome other
Has kindled the flame,
And I'll figh for herself

In another one's name.

SONG LXXIII.

The Tippling Philofophers.

IOGENES furly and proud,

DIOG

Who fnarl'd at the Macedon youth, Delighted in wine that was good,

Because in good wine there was truth; But growing as poor as a Job,

Unable to purchase a flask,

He chofe for his mansion a tub,
And liv'd by the scent of the cask.

Heraclitus ne'er wou'd deny

A bumper, to cherish his heart; And when he was maudlin would cry, Because he had empty'd his quart: Tho' fome are so foolish to think,

He wept at men's follies and vice, 'Twas only his custom to drink,

Till the liquor flow'd out of his eyes.

Democritus always was glad

To tipple and cherish his foul; Would laugh like a man that was mad, When over a good flowing bowl;

As long as his cellar was ftor'd,

The liquor he'd merrily quaff:

And when he was drunk as a lord,
At them that were fober he'd laugh.

Wife Solon, who carefully gave

Good laws unto Athens of old, And thought the rich Crosus a slave (Tho' a king) to his coffers of gold;

He delighted in plentiful bowls ;
But drinking much talk would decline,
Because 'twas the custom of fools
To prattle much over their wine.

Old Socrates ne'er was content,
Till a bottle had heighten'd his joys,
Who in's cups to the oracle went,

Or he ne'er had been counted fo wife :
Late hours he most certainly lov'd,
Made wine the delight of his life,
Or Xantippe would never have prov'd
Such a damnable scold of a wife.

Grave Seneca, fam'd for his parts,
Who tutor❜d the bully of Rome,
Grew wife o'er his cups and his quarts,

Which he drank like a mifer at home;
And, to fhew he lov'd wine that was good,
To the last (we may truly aver it),
He tinctur'd his bath with his blood,
So fancy'd he dy'd in his claret.

Pythagoras did filence enjoin

On his pupils who wisdom would feek; Because he tippled good wine,

Till himself was unable to speak; And when he was whimsical grown, With fipping his plentiful bowls, By the strength of the juice in his crown, He conceiv'd tranfmigration of fouls.

Copernicus too, like the rest,

Believ'd there was wisdom in wine, And thought that a cup of the best Made reason the brighter to shine;

With wine he replenish'd his veins,
And made his philofophy reel;
Then fancy'd the world, like his brains,
Turn'd round like a chariot-wheel.

Aristotle, that mafter of arts,

Had been but a dunce without wine;
And what we ascribe to his parts,
Is due to the juice of the vine:
His belly, most writers agree,

Was big as a watering-trough;
He therefore leap'd into the fea,
Because he'd have liquor enough.

Old Plato was reckon'd divine,

He fondly to wisdom was prone;
But had it not been for good wine,
His merits had never been known.
By wine we are generous made,

It furnishes fancy with wings,
Without it we ne'er should have had
Philofophers, poets, or kings.

SONG LXXIV.

Down among the dead Men.

HERE'S a health to the king and a lafting peace;

May faction be damn'd, and discord cease:

Come, let us drink it while we have breath,

For there's no drinking after death;

And he that won't with this comply,

Down among the dead men,
Down among the dead men,

Down, down, down, down,

Down among the dead men, let him ly.

Now a health to the queen, and may she long B' our first fair toast to grace our fong;

Off wi' your hats, wi' your knee on the ground,
Take off your bumpers all around;

And he that will not drink his dry,
Down among, &c. let him ly.

Let charming beauty's health go round,
In whom celeftial joys are found;
And may confusion still pursue
The senseless woman-hating crew;
And he that will this health deny,
Down among, &c. let him ly.

Here's thriving to trade, and the commonweal,
And patriots to their country leal;

But who for bribes gives Satan his foul,
May he ne'er laugh o'er a flowing bowl;
And all that with such rogues comply,
Down among, &c. let him ly.

In smiling Bacchus' joys I'll roll,
Deny no pleasure to my foul;

Let Bacchus' health round swiftly move,

For Bacchus is a friend to love;

And he that does this health deny,

Down among, &c. let him ly.

SONG LXXV.

E that will not merry merry be,

HE

With a generous bowl and a toast,

May he in Bridewell be shut up,

And faft bound to a poft;

Let him be merry merry there,

And we'll be merry merry here;

For who can know where we shall go,
To be merry another year?