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Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows,
And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves; Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose;
Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves; Yet, though thus beautiful beyond expression, That beauty fadeth by too much possession.
Economy in love is peace to nature,
Lovers are really spendthrifts—’t is a shame-
Till penury stares them in the face;
And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace!
Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose-
Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows;
Yet often should the little god retireAbsence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows,
That keeps alive the sacred fire.
TO A FLY,
TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH.
An! poor intoxicated little knave,
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.
Now let me take thee out, and moralize-
Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
But in goes every nose—they must, will sup.
Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed !
When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild, They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild.
Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead;
And now thy little drunken eyes unclose,
And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands
That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.
And now thou rollest on thy back about,
Now turnest-on the table making rings;
Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings:
Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,
Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,
There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends,
Let buns and sugar for the future charm ;
While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin,
Then, like an alligator, drags him in.
MAN MAY BE HAPPY.
“Man may be happy, if he will :"
Doctrine to make the million stare !
Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.
But here's the mischief-man's an ass, I
say; Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain; He hides the charming, cheerful ray
That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain! Dark, he must court the skull, and spade, and shroudThe mistress of his soul must be a cloud !
Who told him that he must be cursed on earth ?
The God of Nature ?-No such thing; Heaven whispered him, the moment of his birth,
“Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing; Don't be too wise, and be an ape:In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape.
“Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn;
Yet mind me-if, through want of grace,
Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face, Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn."
Yet some there are, of men, I think the worst,
Forever brooding over Misery's eggs,
To catch their happiness by the legs.
Even at a dinner some will be unblessed,
They always come to table with a scowl,
Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.
I hate to drop the discontented jaw!
And pick even pleasure from a straw.
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT
My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Like racking engines !
When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Wi' pitying moan;
Aye mocks our groan!
Adown my beard the slavers trickle !
As round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup;
Were in their doup.
O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Sad sight to see!
Thou bear'st the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
In dreadfu' raw,
Amang them a';
O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
gars the notes of discord squeel,
In gore a shoe-thick ;-
A towmond's Toothache!
TI E PIG.
A COLLOQUIAL POEM.
Jacob ! I do not like to see thy nose
Is he obstinate ?