Ah, well, God grant that these dear chimes May mind you of the sweetness only Of those far distant, callow times When you were Benedick and lonely-- And when an angel blessed your lot-- For angel is your helpmeet, truly-- And when, to share the joy she brought, Came other little angels, duly. So here's a health to you and wife-- Long may you mock the Reaper's warning, And may the evening of your life In rising sons renew the morning; May happiness and peace and love Come with each morrow to caress ye, And when you're done with earth, above-- God bless ye, dear old friend--God bless ye! HORACE'S ODE TO "LYDIA" ROCHE. No longer the boys, With their music and noise, Demand your election as mayor; Such a milk-wagon hack Has no place on the track When his rival's a thoroughbred stayer. With your coarse, shallow wit Every rational cit At last is completely disgusted; The tool of the rings, Trusts, barons, and things, What wonder, I wonder, you're busted! As soon as that Yerkes Finds out you can't work his Intrigues for the popular nickel, With a tear to deceive you He'll drop you and leave you In your normal condition--a pickle. Go, dodderer, go Where the whisker winds blow And spasms of penitence trouble; Or flounder and whoop In an ocean of soup Where the pills of adversity bubble. A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715. Since Chloe is so monstrous fair, With such an eye and such an air, What wonder that the world complains When she each am'rous suit disdains? Close to her mother's side she clings And mocks the death her folly brings To gentle swains that feel the smarts Her eyes inflict upon their hearts. Whilst thus the years of youth go by, Shall Colin languish, Strephon die? Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate, And choose him ere it be too late! A PARAPHRASE, OSTENSIBLY BY DR. I. W. Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother With prattlings and with vain ado Your worthy and industrious mother, Eschewing them that come to woo? Oh, that the awful truth might quicken This stern conviction to your breast: You are no longer now a chicken Too young to quit the parent nest. So put aside your froward carriage And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time, Upon the righteousness of marriage With some such godly man as I'm. HORACE I, 27. In maudlin spite let Thracians fight Above their bowls of liquor, But such as we, when on a spree, Should never bawl and bicker! These angry words and clashing swords Are quite de trop, I'm thinking; Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise, And drown your wrath in drinking. Aha, 'tis fine--this mellow wine With which our host would dope us! Now let us hear what pretty dear Entangles him of Opus.