55 Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; And prove their doctrine orthodox And finding somewhat still amiss; Than dog distract or monkey sick; The wrong than others the right way; Compound for sins they are inclined to 75 By damning those they have no mind to; As if they worshipped God for spite. The selfsame thing they will abhor In them; in other men, all sin. That which they love most tenderly, Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge; And blaspheme custard through the nose. SIR GEORGE ETHERIDGE TO A LADY ASKING HOW LONG HE WOULD LOVE HER It is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; 80 85 90 1663. It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste: The blessed, that immortal be, 5 From change in love are only free. Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love may last; Each minute be with pleasure passed: ΙΟ Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die? Before 1675. 1701. For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we Roll up and down our ships at sea With a fa, la, la, la, la! Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind, Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way; With a fa, la, la, la, la! The King with wonder and surprise Than e'er they did of old; 10 15 20 25 For what resistance can they find From men who 've left their hearts behind?— 33 Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, In hopes this declaration moves We have too much of that at sea- 1665. ON A LADY WHO FANCIED HERSELF A BEAUTY Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes, United, cast too fierce a light, Which blazes high but quickly dies, Pains not the heart but hurts the sight. Love is a calmer, gentler joy; 75 5 Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace: That runs his link full in your face. Before 1680. 1701. SONG Phyllis, for shame! let us improve, A thousand different ways, Those few short moments snatched by love From many tedious days. |