Songs from the Dramatists

THE TWINS.

THE

WIT IN JAIL.

HE Tower confines the great,
The spunging-house the poor;
Thus there are degrees of state

That even the wretched must endure.
Virgil, though cherished in courts,

Relates but a splenetic tale:

Cervantes revels and sports,

Although he writ in a jail.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

THE DUENNA.

LOVE FOR LOVE.

I NE'ER could any lustre see

In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,

But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose, untouched by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so, when I see

That heaving bosom sigh for me.

CONDITIONS OF BEAUTY.

GIVE Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast,

But health and good humour to make her his toast;
If straight, I don't mind whether slender or fat,
And six feet or four-we'll ne'er quarrel for that.
Whate'er her complexion I vow I don't care,
If brown, it is lasting-more pleasing, if fair:
And though in her face I no dimples should see,
Let her smile and each dell is a dimple to me.
Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen,
And her eyes may be e'en any colour but green;
For in eyes, though so various the lustre and hue,
I swear I've no choice-only let her have two.

'Tis true I'd dispense with a throne on her back;
And white teeth, I own, are genteeler than black;
A little round chin too's a beauty, I've heard;
But I only desire she mayn't have a beard.

THE SUNSHINE OF AGE.

H, the days when I was young,

0円

When I laughed in fortune's spite;
Talked of love the whole day long,

And with nectar crowned the night!
Then it was, old father Care,

Little recked I of thy frown;
Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.

Truth, they say, lies in a well,
Why I vow I ne'er could see;
Let the water-drinkers tell,
There it always lay for me:
For when sparkling wine went round,
Never saw I falsehood's mask;

But still honest truth I found

In the bottom of each flask.

True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay;
Few the locks that now I own,

And the few I have are grey.
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast,
While thy spirits do not tire;
Still beneath thy age's frost,
Glows a spark of youthful fire.

DRINKING GLEE.

'HIS bottle's the sun of our table,
His beams are rosy wine;

We, planets, that are not able

Without his help to shine.

Let mirth and glee abound!

You'll soon grow bright

With borrowed light,

And shine as he goes

round!

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

LET THE TOAST PASS.

ERE'S to the maiden of bashful fifteen;
Here's to the widow of fifty;

Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.
Let the toast pass,

Drink to the lass,

I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the maid who has none, sir:
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.
Let the toast pass, &c.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that's as brown as a berry:
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that's merry.
Let the toast pass, &c.

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e'en toast them together.

Let the toast pass, &c.*

* These gay and flowing verses, perhaps the most popular of their class in the language, are evidently modelled on the following song in Suckling's play of the Goblins:

'A health to the nut-brown lass
With the hazel eyes, let it pass,

She that has good eyes, &c.

Let it pass-let it pass.

As much to the lively grey,

'Tis as good in the night as the day,

She that hath good eyes, &c.

Drink away-drink away.

I pledge, I pledge, what ho! some wine,
Here's to thine-here's to thine!

The colours are divine;

But oh! the black, the black,

Give me as much again, and let 't be sack;

She that hath good eyes,' &c.

This song was appropriated by S. Sheppard, in a comedy called the Committee-man curried, 1647. Sheppard was a notorious plagiarist, and had the audacity to publish the lines without any acknowledgment of the source from whence he stole them.