On his own Times how wisely King Solomon spoke, But Wisdom, in our Times, is rather a Joke. Who's to blame ? 'tis not clear, whether we or our guides, But equally things are ill-timed on all sides. There's a Time to be right, for some Time we've been wrong; There's a Time for a Speech, and a Time for a Song.- Superannuate Socials, like me, leave the Lass, Turn'd the corner of Forty, 'tis Time to give way;- ON Na Brook's grassy brink, in the Willow's cool The Primroses pressing, a Damsel was laid; The 'Squire's fine Lady last night he brought home; come, Had I costly fashions as well shou'd I seem, Thro' Church-yard, on Sunday, as slowly I tread, While gaping Louts, grinning, on tombstones are spread, I hear how they praise me, I keep on my way, Sometimes Lords and Captains, all over perfume, Will stop me, and tell me, I'm Beauty in Bloom. That I rival the Rose,-that I'm whiter than Snow: I simper, and simply say-Don't jeer one so. They've press'd me, they've promis'd, nay offer'd me gold, Sometimes (I assure them) they've strove to be bold; They've talk'd of my Treasure, they've call'dita Gem, To be sure so it is, but it is not for them. No! no! 'tis for him, and 'tis only his part, Heart; Who friendly instructs me, who fondly can play, And his Eyes always speak what his Wishes wou'd say. The ranging Bee sweets from the honey-cup sips, As sweet I taste Love from the Touch of his Lips; Oft' my cheek on the Fleece of my Lambkins I rest, But cold is that pillow compar'd to his breast. 'Tis here for my Fair one!-her Lover reply'd, O'er the hedge as he leap'd, and light dropp'd at her side; She started! a moment Life's bloom left her face, But quick 'twas recall'd by the warmth of embrace. She, languishing lay in Love's tenderest scene, Andquestion'd the Rambler where 'twas he had been? Why so he wou'd fright her.-She'd scold him she vow'd, But a Kiss was his plea, and that plea was allow'd. 'Till by Kisses o'ercome, to his transports she yields, TURN'D of Forty!--what then ?—why 'twixt That and Threescore, All the days of our lives let us live, give. Non sum qualis eram, in School-master's Lore, Ulysses at Forty Queen Circe embrac'd, The Boys of this Time ne'er to Manhood arise, Insipid Emaciates each public place throng.- Those Mode-made-up Things, flutter lifehood away, Perpetually talk, tho' they've nothing to say, As nothing they think on, so nothing they do, And hue and cry Life thro' the town. In the pause of Embrace practis'd Beauties aver, No wonder they sensible Forty prefer To Folly and faint Twenty-five. No Chronics my muscular bulwarks invade, Constitution I never a Bankrupt have made, It is true we are old,-old companions we've been: While prompted by natural vigour to play, The warning-bell rung, we've no business to stay, A NEW ROAST BEEF. TO THE OLD TUNE. OW Old England's Flag is Commander in NOW Chief. With Monsieur our Monarch's turn'd o'er a new leaf, Down, down with French Dishes, up, up with Roast Beef. F O the Roast Beef, &c. |