With Bacchus and her
We'll tickle the sense,
For we shall be past it

An hundred years hence.

Your most beautiful bit,

That hath all eyes upon her, That her honesty sells

For a haut-goût of honour, Whose lightness and brightness Doth shine in such splendour, That none but the stars

Are thought fit to attend her Though now she be pleasant, And sweet to the sense, Will be damnable mouldy An hundred years hence.

The usurer, that

In the hundred takes twenty,

Who wants in his wealth,

And pines in his plenty ;

Lays up for a season

Which he shall ne'er see,

The year one thousand

Eight hundred and three :

His wit and his wealth,

His learning and sense, Shall be turned to nothing An hundred years hence.

Your Chancery-lawyers,
Whose subtilty thrives,

;

In spinning out suits

To the length of three lives
Such suits which the clients

Do wear out in slavery,
Whilst pleader makes conscience
A cloak for his knavery,
May boast of his subtilty

In the present tense,
But non est inventus

An hundred years hence.

JOLLY mortals, fill your glasses,
Noble deeds are done by wine;
Scorn the nymph and all her graces,
Who'd for love or beauty pine.
C

VOL. II.

0.

Look within the bowl that's flowing,
And a thousand charms you'll find,
More than in Phyllis, though just going
In the moment to be kind.

Alexander hated thinking,

Drank about at council-board;
He subdued the world by drinking,
More than by his conquering sword.

SONG XVIII.

As swift as time put round the glass,
And husband well life's little space;
Perhaps your sun, which shines so bright,
May set in everlasting night.*

Or, if the sun again should rise,

Death, ere the morn, may close your eyes;
Then drink, before it be too late,
And snatch the present hour from fate.

Come, fill a bumper, fill it round;

Let mirth, and wit, and wine abound;
In these alone true wisdom lies,
For, to be merry's to be wise.

[This passage, like too many others amid the present festal assemblage, betrays a near alliance with the modern philosophy of the Gallic school; which Miss More has forcibly and felicitously termed 'the college of infidelity.']

SONG XIX.*

Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Could'st thou sip and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short, and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline:
Thine's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one.

[Yet this difference we may see
'Twixt the life of man and thee:
Thou art for this life alone,

Man seeks another when 'tis gone;

And though allow'd its joys to share,
'Tis Virtue here hopes Pleasure there.]†

* 'Made extempore by a gentleman, occasioned by a fly drinking out of his cup of ale.'

+ [This moral finale was added by the Rev. Mr. Plumptre. See his Collection of Songs,' vol. i. p. 257; where a third verse appears to the original composition, which was probably omitted by Ritson, from its incongruity of metaphor.]

SONG XX.

ANACREON ON HIMSELF.

BY THE REV. MR. FAWKES.

WHEN I drain the rosy bowl,
Joy exhilarates my soul;
To the Nine I raise my song,
Ever fair and ever young.
When full cups my cares expel,
Sober counsels then farewel;

Let the winds, that murmur, sweep
All my sorrows to the deep.

When I drink dull time away,
Jolly Bacchus, ever gay,
Leads me to delightful bowers,
Full of fragrance, full of flowers.
When I quaff the sparkling wine,
And my locks with roses twine,
Then I praise life's rural scene,
Sweet, sequester'd, and serene.

When I sink the bowl profound, Richest fragrance flowing round, And some lovely nymph detain, Venus then inspires the strain. When from goblets deep and wide, I exhaust the generous tide,

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