But, if he errs at all, it is on the safe side. Page 88. _No Gypsie nor no Blackamore._ Composers and arrangers of such collections as this Drollery seem to have often chosen pieces simply for contrast. Thus, after the manly directness of “The Doctor’s Touchstone,” we find the vilely mercenary husband here exhibited, and followed by the truthful description (justifiable, although coarsely outspoken) of “The baseness of Whores.” Such were they of old: such are they ever. Page 92. _Let not Sweet Saint_, &c. Like the three preceding poems, not yet found elsewhere, but worthy of preservation. Page 93. _How happy’s that Prisoner._ Written “by a Person of Quality:” whom we suspect to have been SIR FRANCIS WORTLEY, but without evidence to substantiate the guess. This is the earliest appearance in print, known to us, of this characteristic outburst of Cavalier vivacity, which re-appears as the Musician’s Song, in “_Cromwell’s Conspiracy_,” 1660, Act iii. sc. 2; and _Merry Drollery_, 1661, p. 101. (See also _M. D. C._, pp. 107, 373). As to the introduction of the several ancient philosophers (referred to in former Appendix, p. 373), compare the delightful _Chanson a Boire_, _Je cherche en vin la vérité,_ _Si le vin n’aide à ma foiblesse,_ _Toute la docte antiquité_ _Dans le vin puisa la sagesse,_ _Oui c’est par le bon vin que le bon sens éclate,_ _J’en atteste_ Hypocrate, Qui dit qu’il fait a chaque mois Du moins s’enivrer une fois, _&c._ (The other twelve verses are given complete in “_Brallaghan; or, the Deipnosophists_,” 1845, pp. 198-203, with a clever verse-translation, by the foremost of linguistic scholars now alive—the friend of Talfourd and of Dr. W. Maginn—at whom many nowadays presume to scoff, and whom Benchers defame and banish themselves from.) Page 97. _Fire! Fire! O how I burn, &c._ Also in _Windsor Drollery_, 1672, p. 126, as “Fire! Fire! _lo here_ I burn in my desire,” &c. And in Henry Bold’s _Latine Songs_, 1685, p. 139, where it is inserted, to be alongside of this parody on it by him, song xlvii., or a MOCK. 1. _Fire, Fire,_ _Is there no help for thy desire?_ _Are tears all spent? Is ~Humber~ low?_ _Doth ~Trent~ stand still? Doth ~Thames~ not flow?_ _Though all these can’t thy Feaver cure,_ _Yet ~Tyburn~ is a Cooler lure,_ _And since thou can’st not quench thy Fire,_ _Go hang thy self, and thy desire!_ 2. _Fire, fire,_ _Here’s one [still] left for thy desire,_ _Since that the Rainbow in the skye,_ _Is bent a deluge to deny,_ _As loth for thee a God should Lye._ _Let gentle Rope come dangling down,_ _One born to hang shall never drown,_ _And since thou can’st not quench the Fire,_ _Go hang thy self, and thy desire!_ (_Latine Songs_, 1685, p. 140.) Page 98. _’Tis not how witty, nor how free._