How strange! to find the labour done
Just as the _sand_ begins to _run_;
In general human projects drop,
Just when our _sand_ begins to _stop!_
ANACREONTIC.
"THE WISEST MEN ARE FOOLS IN WINE."
The wisest men are fools in wine,
Experience makes us think:
Its magic spells are so divine,
We reason--yet we drink!
How short's the longest life of man,
How soon its brightest laurels fade--
Then, as our life is but a span,
Let all its hours be joyous made.
Wine o'er the ardent restless mind
Entwines its poppy chain;
A solace, then, the wretched find.
In fictions of the brain.
Oh! as the charmed glass we sip,
We conquer care and pain:
It woos like woman's dewy lip,
To kiss--and come again!
This Song has been admirably set to Music, and Sung with great
success, by MR. HENRY PHILLIPS.--It is published by MORI and
LAVENU, 28, New Bond-street.
LINES
WRITTEN IN HORNSEY WOOD
Oh! ye, who pine, in London smoke immured,
With spirits wearied, and with pains uncured,
With all the catalogue of city evils,
Colds, asthmas, rheumatism, coughs, blue devils!
Who bid each bold empiric roll in wealth,
Who drains your fortunes while he saps your health:
So well ye love your dirty streets and lanes,
Ye court your ailments and embrace your pains.
Pages:
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66