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And spoke the meekness of thy spotless mind.
grave gone down." !
Or the LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.
By GEORGE DYER.
Though life declines, and Time, the thief,
I charge thee, fly these haunts, pale-livered Grief! Nor think, if shine my locks all silver-grey, That I, like dotard old, will fall thy sickly prey.
Light was my heart, when days were young,
I laugh'd and danced, I snigger'd, toy'd and sung, The lads and lasses join'd my gamesome strain, And Age stood smirking by, as growing young again.
Where are those days? They are not fled;
My comrades flourish still;
Old bald-pates, oft we meet, by humour led, We call up school-boy days with wizard skill, Repeat our merry pranks and then a bumper fill..
Ye m en who worship hoards of gold,
Yet pleasure dare not taste,
Can I but laugh such men-moles to behold?
Or such as riches only know to waste,
Mere squirrels, cracking nuts, and squandering them in haste?
Philosophers who wink and blink
With close-glass'd, peeping eyes,
Can I but laugh, profoundest Sirs, to think,
What pride mid those meek looks in ambush lies, How Folly screens her face mid Wisdom's fair disguise?
Ye mag-pye poets, chattering rhymes,
And ye, who strains of woe,
Like whining ring-doves, eke against the times, Magging with saucy clack at all you know, Or soothing poor dear selves in sonnet sadly slow;
Whether, good Sirs, ye rail or pine
To sit, and prate like mock-bird shall be mine,
Ye patriot souls, so wonderous grave,
Boasting your country you but wish to save;
Oh! how I sit and laugh to trace your silken lies!
But Kings and Queens, and such like things
No never, will I laugh at Queens or Kings;
But crowns from red-caps, faith! I cannot sever And I could laugh at both for ever and for ever.
And while I laugh, good Joan, my wife
For Joan, kind soul, has laugh'd with me thro' life,
And while our hearts are blithe, ne'er dream of life's decay,
Thus, Falstaff-like, I'll live and die,
Laugh long as I can see ;
And when Death's busy hand shall close my eye,
This bag of jokes I leave the Doctor's fee,
Then, Doctor, when I'm dead, laugh thou, and think of me!
Designed for a TABLET
Over the GRAVE of my LITTLE BOY:
By EDMUND EVERARD.
Stranger beneath a slumbering Infant lies!
And sped, in spotless innocence, to God.
Look onward to the last: for, far beyond
But Stranger! if thine heart be foul with crime,