 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
53
A BALLAD.
Trahit sua quemque voluptas.
The swain with his flock by a brook loves to rest,
With soft rural lays to drive grief from his breast;
The fop, light as air, loves himself to behold,
The Briton his foe, and the miser his gold.
Chorus.
With soft rural lays to drive grief from his breast;
The fop, light as air, loves himself to behold,
The Briton his foe, and the miser his gold.
The pleasures I chuse yield more joy to my soul:
The delight of my heart is a full brimming bowl.
The huntsman, fatigu'd with the toil of the chace,
By the side of a fountain delights to solace:
At his mistress's feet the fond lover to whine,
The beau at the play or assembly to shine.
Chorus.
By the side of a fountain delights to solace:
At his mistress's feet the fond lover to whine,
The beau at the play or assembly to shine.
The pleasures I chuse, &c.
54
My Chloe's in raptures to hear herself prais'd,
The courtier to find that his income is rais'd;
Some nymphs love the town, and in jewels to blaze,
And some silent shades, with a lover, can please.
Chorus.
The courtier to find that his income is rais'd;
Some nymphs love the town, and in jewels to blaze,
And some silent shades, with a lover, can please.
The pleasures I chuse, &c.
Fat bishops in lawn love at court to reside,
The soil of ambition, the nurture of pride;
And palm-itching gamesters the dice ever chuse,
Damn'd bards, like old lovers, still sumble the muse.
Chorus.
The soil of ambition, the nurture of pride;
And palm-itching gamesters the dice ever chuse,
Damn'd bards, like old lovers, still sumble the muse.
The pleasures I chuse, &c.
Some cards love, some coffee, some dice, and some tea,
Some talking, some fiddling, some dancing, some play;
Their choices are dull, there's a spirit in wine,
Which more than enlivens with rapture divine.
Chorus.
Some talking, some fiddling, some dancing, some play;
Their choices are dull, there's a spirit in wine,
Which more than enlivens with rapture divine.
The pleasures I chuse, &c.
55
Abstracted from tumult and noise, who can be
With a friend and a bottle more happy than me,
Not kings, in their pomp, can more pleasures enjoy,
Their blessings may pall, but mine never can cloy.
Chorus.
With a friend and a bottle more happy than me,
Not kings, in their pomp, can more pleasures enjoy,
Their blessings may pall, but mine never can cloy.
The pleasures I chuse, &c.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |