Such fuits which the clients An hundred years hence. Then why fhould we turmoil To fighs and to tears? Let's deal with our damfels, That we may from thence, Have broods to fucceed us An hundred years hence. SONG XVII. JOLLY mortals, fill your glasses, Noble deeds are done by wine; Scorn the nymph and all her graces, Look within the bowl that's flowing, O. Alexander Alexander hated thinking, Drank about at council board; A SONG XVIII. S fwift as time put round the glass, And husband well lifes little space; Perhaps your fun, which shines fo bright, May set in everlasting night. Or, if the fun again fhould rife, 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; SONG XIX.* USY, curious, thirty Fly, Drink with me, and drink as I; Freely welcome to my cup, Could't thou fip and fip it up. Make the most of life you may, Life is fhort, and wears away. "Made extempore by a Gentleman, occafion'd by a Fly drinking out of his Cup of Ale." VOL. II. C Both Both alike are mine and thine, Haftening quick to their decline: Thine's a fummer, mine no more, Threefcore fummers, when they're gone, SONG XX. ANACREON ON HIMSELF. BY THE REV. MR. FAWKE S. 7HEN I drain the rofy bowl, Joy exhilarates my foul; To the Nine I raise my song, Let the winds, that murmur, fweep When I drink dull time away, When I fink the bowl profound, When When from goblets deep and wide, All my foul unbends-I play, SONG XXI. ORTALS, learn your lives to meafure, M Not by length of time, but pleasure; Now the hours invite, comply; Whilst you idly paufe, they fly: Mortals learn your lives to measure, Then you'll ask, but none will give y SONG XXII. LD Chiron thus preach'd to his pupil Achilles : You, my boy, Muft go (The gods will have it fo) To the fiege of Troy ; Thence never to return to Greece again, But before those walls to be flain, C 2 will iss Ne'er Ne'er let your noble courage be caft down; O. L SONG XXIII. ET's be jovial, fill our glaffes, Madness 'tis for us to think Then never let vain cares opprefs us ; We're ev'ry one as rich as Crœfus, Wine will make us red as roses, And our forrows quite forget; When grim Death comes looking for us, Death, begone, here's none but fouls. Godlike Bacchus thus commanding, Ever after understanding, Drinking fouls can never die. SONG |