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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.
Like Witlings, who sacrifice all to their fun,
We our errors enjoy, and rejoice we're undone.

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.---
As to Song-making, somebody told me the way,
Since I nothing cou'd do, how I something shou'd say.
A wish still to do, has my doings out-sped,
And all I have left, alas! lumbers my Head.

Superannuate Socials, like me, leave the Lass,
Pursue the sole sport which we're fit for,—the Glass.
Be not bubbled by self, nor be Flattery's dupes,
Nor attempt at Intrigue when Ability droops.
At impotent Keepers we've pointed with scorn,
Avoid the same vice,—be not laugh’d at in turn.

Turn’d the corner of Forty, 'tis Time to give way ;But Women to Wine change, and still we've our Day. Doctor Bibbibus says, whether Flask or Scotch Pint, As Oil to the Head, Wine the Soul will annoint. Embrace then the Bottles, hug closely your Quarts; May we have in our Arms what we love in our Hearts.

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ON N a Brook's grassy brink, in the Willow's cool

shade,
The Primroses pressing, a Damsel was laid;
She smil'd on the tide that roll'd limpid along,
Beholding herself, to herself

sung
this

song: -
The 'Squire's fine Lady last night he brought home;
What! tho' in such gay clothes from London she's

come, Had I costly fashions as well shou'd I seem, For fairer

my

Face is, if Truth's in this stream.

Thro' Church-yardd, 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,
And, down-looking, seem not to heed what they say.

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 jęer 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'vetalk'd of myTreasure, they've callidita Gem, To be sure so it is, but it is not for them.

No! no ! 'tis for him, and 'tis only his part,
Who's the Man of my Hope, and the Hopes of my

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, And question’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, The landscapes were lost, and forgot were the fields ; Each felt those Sensations Susceptibles prove, Who, mutually melting, exchange mutual Love.

THE VETERAN.

TUNE.
" Give us Glasses my Wench."

TURN'D of Forty !—what then ?—why 'twixt

That and Threescore,
All the days of our lives let us live,
We only ask' Health, not a moment hope more,

Than what Nature undoctor'd will give.

Non sum qualis eram, in School-master's Lore,

Is, our Cake we can't have when 'tis eat ;Do not turn to past views, but new ground gallop o'er,

Nor pull up, for 'tis Time enough yet.
Ulysses at Forty Queen Circe embrac'd,

When older Calypso cou'd move,
Ætherials pronounc'd him a Man to their Taste,

He had Health, Understanding, and Love.
The Boys of this Time ne'er to Manhood arise,

As Shrubs cannot strengthen to Trees. Affectation Ability's Vacuum supplies,

E'er of Age, they are old by Disease.

Insipid Emaciates each public place throng.

As Trinkets on Watch-chains are worn,
By fine Women's sides, shewy, rattl’ing along,

The Fops are for fashion-sake born.
Those Mode-made-up Things, flutter lifehood away,

Abortions of what Britons were: Perpetually talk, tho’ they've nothing to say,

Their looks are but Vacancy's stare.

As nothing they think on, so nothing they do,

But only rise up, and lye down; Inexpletive paths Dissipation pursue,

And hue and cry Life thro' the town.

In the pause of Embrace practis'd Beauties aver,

That Wit keeps Desire alive;
No wonder they sensible Forty prefer

To Folly and faint Twenty-five.

No Chronics my muscular bulwarks invade,

Within, prima via is right:
Constitution I never a Bankrupt have made,

So can pay Beauty's Bill upon Sight.
It is true we are old,--old companions we've been :

Yet sound in our Heads, and our Hearts, Let Wine, Wit, and Women, but open the Scene,

We still can go on with our parts. While prompted by natural vigour to play,

We act thus, encore and encore. The warning-bell rung, we've no business to stay,

Valete, the Farce faith is o’er.

A NEW ROAST BEEF.

TO THE OLD TUNE.

N Old England's Flag is Commander in With Monsieur our Monarch's turn'd o'er a new leaf, Down, down with French Dishes, up, up with Roast Beef.

O the Roast Beef, &c.

F

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