'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. To pass our tedious hours away, We throw a merry main; Or else at serious ombre play; But why should we in vain We were undone when we left you. But now our fears tempestuous grow, And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our wo, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. When any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note, As if it sigh'd with each man's care For being so remote: Think then how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd. With a fa, &c. In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we for hopes of honour lose Our certain happiness; All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love. With a fa, &c. And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears; Let's hear of no inconstancy, We have too much of that at sea. With a fa la, la, la, la. THE SPLENDID SHILLING. BY JOHN PHILIPS. [JOHN PHILIPS was born at Bampton, in Oxfordshire, in 1676, and was educated at Oxford. He died in 1708. He is remarkable for his attachment to tobacco, which he mentions in all his pieces but one. His best poem is written "On Cyder," in imitation of the Georgics of Virgil; the following, which is a parody on the style of Milton, has always been very popular.] HAPPY the man, who, void of care and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain Wishes her health, and joy, and equal love. Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, Then solitary walk, or doze at home Regale chill'd fingers; or from tube as black Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow With looks demure, and silent pace, a dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aërial citadel ascends : With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate; With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear: a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow Intrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admired by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, |