The Humorous Poetry of the English Language | Page 5

or els mote I die.
Now vouchsafe this day or it be night,
That I of you the blissful
sowne may here,
Or see your color like the sunne bright,

That of
yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere,

Queen of comfort and of good companie,
Be heavy again, or else
mote I die.
Now purse, thou art to me my lives light,
And saviour, as downe in
this world here,
Out of this towne helpe me by your might,
Sith that

you will not be my treasure,
For I am slave as nere as any frere,
But
I pray unto your curtesie,
Be heavy again, or els mote I die.
TO CHLOE.
AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY.
PETER PINDAR.
Chloe, we must not always be in heaven,
For ever toying, ogling,
kissing, billing;
The joys for which I thousands would have given,

Will presently be scarcely worth a shilling.
Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows,
And, sweetly swelling,
beats the down of doves;
Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose;

Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves;
Yet, though thus
beautiful beyond expression,
That beauty fadeth by too much
possession.
Economy in love is peace to nature,
Much like economy in worldly
matter;
We should be prudent, never live too fast;
Profusion will
not, can not, always last.
Lovers are really spendthrifts--'tis a shame--
Nothing their
thoughtless, wild career can tame,
Till penury stares them in the face;

And when they find an empty purse,
Grown calmer, wiser, how the
fault they curse,
And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace!

Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thunder hung,
Sunk to an
humble hack that carries dung.
Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose--
Smell twenty
times--and then, my dear, thy nose
Will tell thee (not so much for
scent athirst)
The twentieth drank less flavor than the FIRST.
Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows;
Yet often should the
little god retire--
Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows,
That

keeps alive the sacred fire.
TO A FLY,
TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH.
PETER PINDAR.
Ah! poor intoxicated little knave,
Now senseless, floating on the
fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly
thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy
sweet-lipped soul--
Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with
Punch.
Now let me take thee out, and moralize--
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it
is with flies,
Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
Though Fate,
with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts, the draught of Circe can't
withstand,
But in goes every nose--they must, will sup.
Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed!
When Prudence mounts
their backs to ride them mild,
They fling, they snort, they foam, they
rise inflamed,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild.
Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead;
The Fates, so kind,
have not yet snapped thy thread;
By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and
now its brother.
And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!
And now thy little drunken eyes unclose,
And now thou feelest for
thy little nose,
And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands
Much as
to say, "I'm glad I'm here again."
And well mayest thou rejoice--'tis
very plain,
That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.
And now thou rollest on thy back about,
Happy to find thyself alive,
no doubt--
Now turnest--on the table making rings,
Now crawling,
forming a wet track,
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back,

Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.

Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,
And poking out thy
small, long legs behind;
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;

Preparing now to leave me--farewell, fly!
Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,
And rapture to thy family
afford--
There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee
drunk, drop senseless in the stream
Who gave, perhaps, the
wide-resounding scream,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends,
And wisely tell them thy
imprudence ends.
Let buns and sugar for the future charm;
These will delight, and feed,
and work no harm--
While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin,

Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face, as though he
meant him bliss,
Then, like an alligator, drags him in.
MAN MAY BE HAPPY.
PETER PINDAR.
"Man may be happy, if he will:"
I've said it often, and I think so still;

Doctrine to make the million stare!
Know then, each mortal is an
actual Jove;
Can brew what weather he shall most approve,
Or wind,
or calm, or foul, or fair.
But here's the mischief--man's an ass, I say;
Too fond of thunder,
lightning, storm, and rain;
He hides the charming, cheerful ray
That
spreads a smile o'er hill and plain!
Dark, he must court the skull, and
spade, and shroud--
The mistress of his soul must be a cloud!
Who told him that he must be cursed on earth?
The God of
Nature?--No such thing;
Heaven whispered him, the moment of his
birth,
"Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing;
Don't