The Careless Gallant: Or, A farewel to Sorrow.
Whether these Lines do please, or give offence,
Or shall be damnd as neither wit nor sence,
The Poet is, for that, in no suspence,
For it is all one a hundred years hence.
To an Excellent, and delightful Tune.
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LEt us sing and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoyce,
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With Claret and Sherry, Theorbo and voice,
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The changeable world to our joy is unjust,
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All treasures uncertain,
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Then down with your dust:In frolicks dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,
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For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.
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Wel sport and be free, with Frank, Betty, and Dolly,
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Have Lobsters and Oysters to cure melancholly,
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Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a Flea,
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Dame Venus, loves Lady,
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Was born of the Sea:With her and with Bacchus wel tickle the sense,
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For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.
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Your beautiful bit, who hath all eyes upon her,
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That her honesty sells for a hogo of honour,
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whose lightness and brightness doth cast such a splender,
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That none are thought fit,
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But the Stars to attend her;
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Though now she seems pleasant, & sweet to the sence
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Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.
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Your greatest Grand-Seignior who rants it in riot,
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Not suffering his poor Christian neighbours live quiet,
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Whose numberless army that to him belongs,
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Consists of more Nations,
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Than Babel hath tongues:Though numerous as dust, yet in spight of defence,
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Shall all lie in ashes a hundred years hence.
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Your Usurer that in the hundred takes twenty,
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Who wants in his wealth, and pines in his plenty,
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Lays up for a season which he shall ner see,
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The year of one thousand,
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Eight hundred and three;
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Shall have changd all his Baggs, his houses and Rents,
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For a worm-eaten Coffin a hundred years [hence.]
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The Second Part, to the same Tune.
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YOur Chancery-Lawyer, who by conscience thrives,
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In spinning a sute to the length of three lives,
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A sute which the Clyent doth wear out in slavery,
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whilst pleader makes conscience
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a cloak for his Knavery:
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Can boast of his cunning but ith present-Tence,
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For Non est inventus a hundred years hence.
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Then why should we turmoyl in cares and fears?
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And turn our tranquillity to sighs and tears,
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Lets eat, drink, and play, ere the worms do corrupt us,
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For I say, that
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Post mortem nulla voluptas:
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Lets deal with our Damsels, that we may from thence
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Have broods to suceed us a hundred years hence.
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I never could gain satisfaction upon,
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Your dreams of a bliss when wer cold as as a stone,
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The Sages, call us Drunkards, Gluttons, & wenchers,
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But we find such Morsels,
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upon their own Trenchers:
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For Abigal, Hannah, and sister Prudence,
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Will simper to nothing a hundred years hence.
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The Plush-coated Quack that his fees to inlarge,
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Kills people with Licence, and at their own charg[e,]
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Who builds a vast structure of ill gotten wealth,
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from the degrees of a Piss-pot,
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and ruines of health:
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Though treasures of life he pretends to despenc[e,]
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Shall be turnd into mummy a hundred years henc[e.]
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The Butterflye Courtier that Peagant of state,
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The Mouse-trap of honour, and May-game of fat[e,]
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With all his ambitions, intrigues, and his tricks
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must dye like a Clown,
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and then drop into Stix;
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His plots against death, are too slender a fence,
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For hel be out of fashion a hundred years hence.
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Yea, the Poet himself that so loftily sings,
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As he scorns any subjects, but Heros or Kings,
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Must to the Capricios of fortune submit,
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and often be counted
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a fool for his wit,
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Thus beauty, wit, wealth, law learning, and senc[e,]
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All come to nothing a hundred years hence.
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