To you, my purse, and to none other wight,
Complain I, for ye be my lady dere;
I am sorry now that ye be light,
For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere;
Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere,
For which unto your mercy thus I crie,
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.
Now vouchsafe this day or it be night,
That I of you the blissful sowne may here,
Or see your color like the sunne bright,
That of yellowness had never pere ;
Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere,
Queen of comfort and of good companie,
Be heavy again, or else mote I die.
Now purse, thou art to me my lives light,
And saviour, as downe in this world here,
Out of this towne helpe me by your might,
Sith that you will not be my treasure,
For I am slave as nere as any frere,
But I pray unto your curtesie,
Be heavy again, or els mote I die.
AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY.
CHLOE, we must not always be in heaven,
For ever toying, ogling, kissing, billing;
The joys for which I thousands would have given,
Will presently be scarcely worth a shilling.
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,
Much like economy in worldly matter;
We should be prudent, never live too fast;
Profusion will not, can not, always last.
Lovers are really spendthrifts-'t is a shame--
Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame,
Till penury stares them in the face;
And when they find an empty purse,
Grown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse,
And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace! Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thunder hung, Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung.
Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose—
Smell twenty times-and then, my dear, thy nose
Will tell thee (not so much for scent athirst)
The twentieth drank less flavor than the first.
Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows;
Yet often should the little god retire—
Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows,
That keeps alive the sacred fire.
TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH.
AH! poor intoxicated little knave,
Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul—
Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.
Now let me take thee out, and moralize—
Thus 't is with mortals, as it is with flies,
'tis
Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand,
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;
The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread;
By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother,
And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!
And now thy little drunken eyes unclose,
And now thou feelest for thy little nose,
And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands
Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again.”
And well mayest thou rejoice-'tis very plain,
That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.
And now thou rollest on thy back about,
Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt---
Now turnest-on the table making rings,
Now crawling, forming a wet track,
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back,
Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.
Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,
And poking out thy small, long legs behind;
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;
Preparing now to leave me-farewell, fly!
Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,
And rapture to thy family afford—
There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream;
Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends,
And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.
Let buns and sugar for the future charm;
These will delight, and feed, and work no harm—
While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin,
Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss,
Then, like an alligator, drags him in.
"MAN may be happy, if he will:"
I've said it often, and I think so still;
Doctrine to make the million stare!
Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove;
Can brew what weather he shall most approve,
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 shroud-The 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,
Poor imps! unhappy, if they can't be cursed-
Forever brooding over Misery's eggs,
As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin;
Mousing forever for a gin
To catch their happiness by the legs.
Even at a dinner some will be unblessed,
However good the viands, and well dressed:
They always come to table with a scowl,
Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish,
Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish,
Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.
A cart-load, lo, their stomachs steal,
Yet swear they can not make a meal.
I like not the blue-devil-hunting crew!
I hate to drop the discontented jaw !
O let me Nature's simple smile pursue,
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,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;
Our neighbors' sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;
But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases,
Aye mocks our groan!
Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle,
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