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 master of arts, Had been but a dunce without wine; And what we afcribe to his parts, Is due to the juice of the vine; His belly, moft 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; SONG 217. Lucy and COLIN. OF Leifter, fam'd for maidens fair, Bright Lucy was the grace; Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid ftream Reflect fo fweet a face : Till luckless love and pining care Her coral lips and damask cheeks, Oh! have you feen a lily pale, By Lucy warn'd, of flatt'ring fwains Of vengeance due to broken vows, Three times, all in the dead of night, "I hear a voice you cannot hear, "Which fays, I muft not stay; "I fee a hand you cannot fee, "Which beckons' me away. "By a false heart and broken vows, "In early youth I die; "Was I to blame, because his bride "Was thrice as rich as I? "Ah Colin! give not her thy vows, "Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kifs, "But know, fond maid, and know, falfe man, "That Lucy will be there. "Then bear my corfe, my comrades dear, :: She fpoke, the dy'd her corfe was born, She in her winding-sheet. Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts! At once his bofom fwell; The damps of death bedew'd his brow, He shook, he groan'd, he fell. From the vain bride (ah bride no more! The varying crimson fed, When, ftretch'd before her rival's corfe, Then to his Lucy's new made grave, Oft at his grave, the conftant hind, SONG 218. THE BIRD. THE bird, that hears her neftlings cry, And flies abroad for food, Returns impatient through the sky To nurfe the callow brood: The tender mother knows no joy, But bodes a thousand harms, And fickens for the darling boy, While abfent from her arms. Such fondnefs with impatience join'd, Now forc'd to leave my fair behind, The pow'rs of verfe too languid prove, All fimiles are vain, To fhew how ardently I love, The faint with fervent zeal infpir'd 'Twere impious to say more; Convey my longings to the fair, The goddefs I adore. SONG 219. A DISH OF ALL SORTS. GUARDIAN angels now protect me— From the man that I love, tho' my heart I dif guife, I can freely diftinguish – The fun from the eaft, tips the mountains with gold. |