Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy - LightNovelsOnl.com
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We value not c.h.i.n.k, Unless to buy drink, Or purchase us Innocent Pleasure; When 'tis gone we ne'er fret, So we Liquor can get, For Mirth of it self is a Treasure: No Miser can be, So happy as we, Tho' compa.s.s'd with Riches he wallow; Day and Night he's in Fear, And ne'er without Care, While nothing disturbs the Good Fellow.
Come fill up the Gla.s.s, And about let it pa.s.s, For Nature doth vacuums decline!
Down the spruce formal a.s.s, That's afraid of his Face, We'll drink 'till our Noses do _Ph[oe]bus_ out-s.h.i.+ne: While we've plenty of this, We can ne'er do amiss, 'Tis an Antidote 'gainst our ruin; And the Lad that drinks most, With Honour may boast, He fears neither Death, nor undoing.
_The Jovial_ PRISONER, _by_ S. P.
[Music]
A Pox on such Fools! let the Scoundrels rail, Let 'em boast of their Liberty; They're no freer than we, for the World's a Jayl, And all Men Prisoners be.
The Drunkard's confin'd to his Claret, The Miser to his Store; The Wit to his Muse and a Garret, And the Cully-Cit to his Wh.o.r.e.
The Parson's confin'd to his Piggs, The Lawyer to Hatred and Strife; The Fidler to's Borees and Jiggs, And the Quack to his Glister-pipe.
The Church-man's confin'd to be civil, The Quaker's a Prisoner too light; The Papist is bound by the Devil, And the Puritan's fetter'd with spite.
Since old _Adam's_ race are all Prisoners like us, Let us merrily quaff and Sing; Z----s why shou'd we pine for Liberty thus, When we're each of's as free as a King.
_A_ SONG.
_Set by Mr._ HENRY PURCELL.
[Music]
_Phillis_, I can ne'er forgive it, Nor I think, shall e're out-live it; Thus to treat me so severely, Who have always lov'd sincerely.
_Damon_, you so fondly cherish, Whilst poor I, ala.s.s! may perish; I that love, which he did never, Me you slight, and him you Favour.
Love given over: _Being a young Lady's Reply to her Parents, who would have forc'd her to Marry one she had an Aversion against._
[Music]
As Cupid many Ages past, Went out to take the Air; And on the Rosy Morning Feast, He met _Ophelia_ there.
A while he gaz'd, a while survey'd Her Shape and every part; But as his Eyes run o'er the Maid, Hers reach'd his little Heart.
His Quiver straight and Bow he took, And bent it for a flight; And then by chance she cast a look, Which spoil'd his purpose quite.
Disarm'd he knew not what to do, Nor how to Crown his Love; At last resolv'd, away he flew, Another shape to prove.
A l.u.s.tful Satyr straight return'd, In hopes his Form wou'd take: For many Nymphs for them have burn'd, Burn'd 'cause they could not speak.
_Ophelia_ had no sooner spy'd, His G.o.ds.h.i.+p, Goat and Man; But loudly for a.s.sistance cry'd, And fleetly homeward ran.
Perplex'd at her affright, but more At's own defeat, he shook The Monster off; then fled before, And straight Man's Aspect took.
He smil'd, intreated, ly'd, and vow'd, Nay, offer'd her a Sum; And grew importunate and rude, As she drew nearer home.
At last when Tears, nor ought cou'd move, He thus bespoke the Fair; Know Cruel Maid, I'm G.o.d of Love, And can command Despair.
Yet Dame to sue, oh! bless me then, As you regard your Ease; For I am King of G.o.ds and Men, I give and banish Peace.
Or be thou Love, or be thou Hate, Enrag'd _Ophelia_ swore; I'll never change my Virgin state, Nor ever see thee more.
Exploded Love resisted so, In pity to Mankind; His Arrows broke, and burnt his Bow, And left his Name behind.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
Lay by your Pleading, The Law lies a Bleeding, Burn all your Studies down, and throw away your Reading; Small Power the World has, And doth afford us, Not half so many Privileges as the Sword does; It fosters our Masters, It plaisters Disasters, And makes the Servants quickly greater than their Masters; It ventures, it enters, It circles, it Centres, And sets a Prentice free despite of his Indenters.
This takes up all things, And sets up small things, This masters Money, tho' Money masters all things.
It's not in Season, To talk of Reason, Or count it Loyalty, when the Sword will have it Treason: This conquers a Crown too, The Cloak and the Gown too, This sets up a Presbyter, and this doth pull him down too; This subtile deceiver, Turn'd Bonnet into Beaver, Down drops a Bishop, and up steps a Weaver.
It's this makes a Lay-man, To Preach and to Pray Man, And this made a Lord of him, which was before a Drayman; For from this dull-pit, Of _Saxbey's_ Pulpit, This brought a holy Iron-monger to the Pulpit: No Gospel can guide it, No Law can decide it, No Church or State can debate it, 'Till the Sword hath Sanctify'd it; Such pitiful things be, Happier than Kings be, This brought in the Heraldry of _Thimblesby_ and _Slingsby_.
Down goes the Law-trix, For from this Matrix, Sprang holy _Hewson's_ power, and tumbl'd down St. _Patrick's_.
It batter'd the Gun-kirk, So did it the Dum-kirk, That he is fled and gone to the Devil in _Dunkirk_; In _Scotland_ this waster, Did work such disaster, This brought the Money back for which they sold their Master: This frighted the _Flemming_, And made him so beseeming, That he doth never think of his lost Lands redeeming.
But he that can tower, Over him that is lower, Would be counted but a Fool to give away his Power: Take Books and rent them, Who would invent them, When as the Sword replys _Negatur Argumentur_: The grand College Butlers, Must vail to the Sutlers, There's not a Library like to the Cutlers; The Blood that is spilt, Sir, Hath gain'd all the Guilt, Sir, Thus have you seen me run the Sword up to the Hilt, Sir.
_Queen_ DIDO.
[Music]
When _Dido_ was a _Carthage_ Queen, She lov'd a _Trojan_ Knight; Who sail'd about from Coast to Coast, Of Metal brave in Fight:
