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Thine's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore.
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one !

William Oldys.


THE Sages of old,

In prophecy told,
The cause of a nation's undoing ;

But our new English breed

No prophecies need,
For each one here seeks his own ruin.

With grumbling and jars,

We promote civil wars,
And preach up false tenets to many ;

We snarl, and we bite,

We rail, and we fight
For Religion, yet no man has any.

Then him let's commend,

That is true to his friend, And the Church, and the Senate would settle ;

Who delights not in blood,

But draws when he should,
And bravely stands brunt to the battle.

Who rails not at kings,

Nor at politick things,
Nor treason will speak when he's mellow :

But takes a full glass,

To his country's success ;
This, this is an honest, brave fellow.



Says Plato, why should man be vain

Since bounteous heaven has made him great? Why look with insolent disdain

On those undecked with wealth or state ?

Can splendid robes or beds of down,

Or costly gems to deck the fair, Can all the glories of a crown

Give health, or ease the brow of care. The sceptred king, the burthen'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 monarchs rest,

Who once the greatest titles bore, -
The wealth and glory they possessed,

And all their honours, are no more !

So glides the meteor through the sky,

And spreads along a gilded train; But when its short-lived beauties die,

Dissolves to common air again; So 'tis with us, my jovial souls !

Let friendship reign while here we stay; Let's crown our joys with flowing bowls, When Jove us calls we must away.



With an honest old friend and a merry old song,
And a flask of old port, let me sit the night long,
And laugh at the malice of those who repine
That they must drink porter whilst I can drink wine.
I envy no mortal tho' 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 of purse.
Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay,
Let us 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.

Henry Carey.



What Cato advises most certainly wise is,

Not always to labour, but sometimes to play,
To mingle sweet pleasure with thirst after treasure,

Indulging at night for the toils of the day :
And while the dull miser esteems himself wiser

His bags to increase, while his health does decay, Our souls we enlighten, our fancy we brighten,

And pass the long evenings in pleasure away.

All cheerful and hearty, we set aside party,

With some tender fair the bright bumper is crown'd; Thus Bacchus invites us, and Venus delights us,

While care in an ocean of claret is drown'd.

See here's our physician,—we know no ambition,

But where there's good wine and good company found ; Thus happy together, in spite of all weather, 'Tis sunshine and summer with us all the year round

Henry Carey.



In the days of my youth I've been frequently told,
That the best of good things are despised when they're old,
Yet I own, I'm so lost in the modes of this life,
As to prize an old friend, and to love an old wife;
And the first of enjoyments, thro' life has been mine,
To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine.
In this gay world, new fashions spring up every day,
And to make room for them, still the old must give way;
A new fav’rite at Court will an old one displace,
And too oft an old friend will put on a new face :
Yet the pride, pomp, and splendour of courts I'd resign,
To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine.

With old England, by some folks, great faults have been

found, Tho' they've since found much greater on New England's

ground, And the thief a new region transportedly hails, Quitting Old England's coast for a trip to New Wales : But such transporting trips, pleased with home, I'd decline, To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. By the bright golden sun, that gives birth to the day, Tho' as old as the globe which he gilds with his ray, And the moon, which, tho' new, every month, as we're told, Is the same silver lamp near six thousand years oldCould the lamp of my life last while sun and moon shine, I'd regale an old friend with a flask of old wine.

John Collins.


If all be true that I do think,
There are five reasons we should drink;
Good wine-a friend--or being dry-
Or lest we should be by and by-
Or any other reason why.

Dr. Henry Aldrich.




WHENE'ER the cruel hand of death
Untimely stops a favourite's breath,
Muses in plaintive numbers tell
How loved he lived-how mourn'd he fell;
Catullus wail'd his sparrow's fate,

And Gray immortalised his cat.
Thrice tuneful bards! could I but chime so clever,
My quart, my honest quart, should live for ever.

How weak is all a mortal's power
Tavert the death-devoted hour!

Nor can a shape, or beauty save
From the sure conquest of the grave.
In vain the butler's choicest care,

The master's wish, the bursar's prayer!
For when life's lengthen’d to its longest span,
China itself must fall, as well as man.

Can I forget how oft my quart
Has soothed my care, and warm'd my heart?
When barley lent its balmy aid,
And all its liquid charms display'd!
When orange and the nut-brown toast

Swam mantling round the spicy coast!
The pleasing depth I view'd with sparkling eyes,
Nor envied Jove the nectar of the skies.

The side-board, on that fatal day,
When you in glittering ruins lay,
Mourn'd at thy loss—in guggling tone
Decanters pourëd out their moan-
A dimness hung on every glass-

Joe wonder'd what the matter was-
Corks, self-contracted, freed the frantic beer,
And sympathising tankards dropt a tear.

Where are the flowery wreaths that bound
In rosy rings thy chaplets round?
The azure stars whose glittering rays
Promised a happier length of days!
The trees that on thy border grew,

And blossom'd with eternal blue!
Trees, stars, and flowers are scatter'd on the floor,
And all thy brittle beauties are no more.

Hadst thou been form’d of coarser earth,
Had Nottingham but given thee birth!
Or had thy variegated side
Of Stafford's sable hue been dyed,
Thy stately fabric had been found,

Though tables tumbled on the ground. -
The finest mould the soonest will decay;
Hear this, ye fair, for you yourselves are clay!


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