The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | The English Dance of Death |  |
OF all the Follies that disgrace
The progress of the human race,
Few call for livelier ridicule,
Or more distinctly mark the fool,
Than when old age attempts to prove,
That still it has the power to love.—
It asks not youth, it asks not health,
To hoard accumulated wealth:
To the last stage of lengthen'd years,
The love of gold the Miser cheers;
And, on the day he tells fourscore,
He still can count his treasures o'er.—
While Reason lives, the hoary sage
May feel that Wisdom crowns his age;
And, to Life's most protracted hour,
He may enjoy the pride of Power.
But Nestor's self a fool would prove,
If he should turn his thoughts to love.
When Winter's Form, with trembling pace,
Attempts a sprightly, vernal grace,
Or, with a stamm'ring tongue, to tell,
He loves so true—he loves so well;
Or bids the blushing roses blow
Around his temples white with snow;
The careless, playful world may smile;
But rigid Reason will revile
The wand'ring strange from Nature's plan,
And see the Ideot in the Man.
Bring me the cap that Folly wears,
With jingling bells and lengthen'd ears,
And place it on the old man's head
Who babbles love, and longs to wed.
Youth is the season made for joy;
Let Cupid then his power employ;
Then all his soft delights improve,
While Hymen knits the bands of Love.
The progress of the human race,
Few call for livelier ridicule,
Or more distinctly mark the fool,
Than when old age attempts to prove,
That still it has the power to love.—
It asks not youth, it asks not health,
To hoard accumulated wealth:
To the last stage of lengthen'd years,
The love of gold the Miser cheers;
And, on the day he tells fourscore,
He still can count his treasures o'er.—
While Reason lives, the hoary sage
May feel that Wisdom crowns his age;
And, to Life's most protracted hour,
He may enjoy the pride of Power.
107
If he should turn his thoughts to love.
When Winter's Form, with trembling pace,
Attempts a sprightly, vernal grace,
Or, with a stamm'ring tongue, to tell,
He loves so true—he loves so well;
Or bids the blushing roses blow
Around his temples white with snow;
The careless, playful world may smile;
But rigid Reason will revile
The wand'ring strange from Nature's plan,
And see the Ideot in the Man.
Bring me the cap that Folly wears,
With jingling bells and lengthen'd ears,
And place it on the old man's head
Who babbles love, and longs to wed.
Youth is the season made for joy;
Let Cupid then his power employ;
Then all his soft delights improve,
While Hymen knits the bands of Love.
| The English Dance of Death | |