« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
Although I have left her, the truth I'll declare
I believe she was good, and I'm sure she was fair :
But goodness and charms in a bumper I see,
That make it as good and as charming as she.
My Chloe had dimples and smiles, I must own;
But, though she could smile, yet in truth she could frown:
But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine,
Did you e’er see a frown in a bumper of wine ?
Her lilies and roses were just in their prime;
Yet lilies and roses are conquer'd by time :
But in wine, from its age such a benefit flows,
That we like it the better the older it grows.
They tell me, my love would in time have been cloy'd,
And that beauty's insipid when once 'tis enjoy'd ;
But in wine I both time and enjoyment defy;
For the longer I drink, the more thirsty am I.
Let murders, and battles, and history prove
The mischiefs that wait upon rivals in love;
But in drinking, thank heaven, no rival contends,
For the more we love liquor, the more we are friends.
She too might have poison'd the joy of my life,
With nurses and babies, and squalling and strife :
wine neither nurses nor babies can bring ; And a big-bellied bottle's a mighty good thing.
We shorten our days when with love we engage,
It brings on diseases and hastens old age ;
But wine from grim death can its votaries save,
And keep out t’ other leg, when there's one in the grave.
Perhaps, like her sex, ever false to their word,
She had left me to get an estate, or a lord ;
But my bumper (regarding nor title nor pelf)
Will stand by me when I can't stand by myself.
Then let my dear Chloe no longer complain ;
She's rid of her lover, and I of my pain :
For in wine, mighty wine, many comforts I spy;
Should you doubt what I say, take a bumper and try.
She tells me with claret she cannot agree,
And she thinks of a hogshead whene'er she sees me ;
For I smell like a beast, and therefore must I,
Resolve to forsake her, or claret deny.
Must I leave my dear bottle, that was always my friend,
And I hope will continue so, to my life's end ?
Must I leave it for her ? 'tis a very hard task :
Let her go to the devil !-bring the other full flask.
Had she tax'd me with gaming, and bid me forbear, 'Tis a thousand to one I had lent her an ear :
* Honest Tom's title to this song is rather questionable. In one of his plays he has a song beginning,
• When I visit proud Celia just come from the glass,' which is so near the present, as to make one thing certain while it leaves it doubtful, i. e. either that the present copy was borrowed from Tom, or that Tom borrowed from it. (Ritson seems by this note to have pre-supposed that he had ascribed this song to D'Urfey.)
Had she found out my Sally, up three pair of stairs,
I had balk'd her, and gone to St. James's to prayers.
Had she bad me read homilies three times a day,
She perhaps had been humour'd with little to say ;
But, at night, to deny me my bottle of red,
Let her go to the devil !—there's no more to be said.
With an honest old friend, and a merry old song,
And a flask of old ort, let me sit the night long ;
And laugh at the malice of those who repine,
That they must swig porter, while I can drink wine.
I envy no mortal, though ever so great,
Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate ;
But what I abhor, and esteem as a curse,
Is poorness of spirit, not poorness in purse.
Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay,
Let's merrily pass life’s remainder away ;
Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise,
For the more we are envied, the higher we rise.
* [At p. 13, Ritson desires the reader to prefer the appellative Harry Carey to that of Mr. Henry: for what important reason he has not declared. The character given of him by Sir John Hawkins, and cited in vol. i. p. 84, certainly raises him above the moral elevation of Tom D'Urfey.]
BY THE REV. WILLIAM THOMPSON.
A 300K, a friend, a song, a glass,
A chaste, yet laughter-loving lass,
To mortals various joys impart,
Inform the sense, and warm the heart.
Thrice happy they who, careless, laid
Beneath a kind embowering shade,
With rosy wreaths their temples crown,
rosy wine their sorrows drown.
Meanwhile the Muses wake the lyre,
The Graces modest mirth inspire,
Good-natur'd humour, harmless wit ;
Well-temper'd joys, nor grave, nor light.
Let sacred Venus with her heir,
And dear Ianthe too be there :-
Music and wine in concert move
With beauty and refining love.
There Peace shall spread her dove-like wing,
And bid her olives round us spring,
There Truth shall reign, a sacred guest !
And Innocence, to crown the rest.
Begone-ambition, riches, toys,
And splendid cares, and guilty joys :-
Give me a book, a friend, a glass,
And a chaste laughter-loving lass.
Says Plato, why should man be vain,
Since bounteous heav'n has made him great ?
Why look with insolent disdain
On those undeck'd with wealth or state ?
Can splendid robes, or beds of down,
Or costly gems that deck the fair,
Can all the glories of a crown
Give health, or ease the brow of care ?
The scepter'd king, the burden'd slave,
The humble, and the haughty die ;
The rich, the poor, the base, the brave,
In dust, without distinction, lie.
Go, search the tombs where monarch's rest,
Who once the greatest titles bore;
The wealth and glory they possest,
And all their honours are no more.
So glides the meteor through the sky,
And spreads along a gilded train,
* An alteration of a poem, written by the Rev. Mr. Matthew (husband of the celebrated Letitia) Pilkington, beginning,
• Why, Lycidas, should man be vain?'