Dost lawless pleasures grasp? Judge not thou deal’st in joy; Its flowers but hide the asp, Thy revels to destroy: Who trusts a harlot’s smile, And by her wiles is led, Plays with a sword the while, Hung dropping o’er his head. Dost doubt my warning song? Then doubt the sun gives light, Doubt truth to teach thee wrong, And wrong alone as right; And live as lives the knave, Intrigue’s deceiving guest, Be tyrant, or be slave, As suits thy ends the best. Or pause amid thy toils, For visions won and lost, And count the fancied spoils, If e’er they quit the cost; And if they still possess Thy mind, as worthy things, Pick straws with Bedlam Bess, And call them diamond rings. Thy folly’s past advice, Thy heart’s already won, Thy fall’s above all price, So go, and be undone; For all who thus prefer The seeming great for small, Shall make wine vinegar, And sweetest honey gall. Wouldst heed the truths I sing, To profit wherewithal, Clip folly’s wanton wing, And keep her within call: I’ve little else to give, What thou canst easy try, The lesson how to live, Is but to learn to die. THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN. [FROM one of Thackeray’s Catalogues, preserved in the British Museum, it appears that _The Life and Age of Man_ was one of the productions printed by him at the ‘Angel in Duck Lane, London.’ Thackeray’s imprint is found attached to broadsides published between 1672 and 1688, and he probably commenced printing soon after the accession of Charles II. The present reprint, the correctness of which is very questionable, is taken from a modern broadside, the editor not having been fortunate enough to meet with any earlier edition. This old poem is said to have been a great favourite with the father of Robert Burns.] IN prime of years, when I was young, I took delight in youthful ways, Not knowing then what did belong Unto the pleasures of those days. At seven years old I was a child, And subject then to be beguiled. At two times seven I went to learn What discipline is taught at school: When good from ill I could discern, I thought myself no more a fool: My parents were contriving than, How I might live when I were man. At three times seven I waxèd wild, When manhood led me to be bold; I thought myself no more a child, My own conceit it so me told: Then did I venture far and near, To buy delight at price full dear. At four times seven I take a wife, And leave off all my wanton ways, Thinking thereby perhaps to thrive, And save myself from sad disgrace. So farewell my companions all, For other business doth me call.