Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyond The resolution reason gave? Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond, That kept me once thy quiet slave, And made thy snare a spider's thread, Which e'en my breath can break in twain; Nor will I be, like Sampson, led To trust thy wiles again. Tempt me no more with rosy cheeks, Nor daze my reason with bright eyes; I'm wearied with thy wayward freaks, And sicken at such vanities: Be roses fine as e'er they will, They, with the meanest, fade and die, And eyes, tho' thick with darts to kill. Share all mortalities. Heed the young bard, who madly sips His nectar-draughts from folly's flowers, Bright eyes, fair cheeks, and ruby lips, Till music melts to honey showers; Lure him to thrum thy empty lays, While flattery listens to the chimes, Till words themselves grow sick with praise And stop for want of rhymes. Let such be still thy paramours, And chaunt love's old and idle tune, Robbing the spring of all its flowers, And heaven of all her stars and moon, To gild with dazzling similes Blind folly's vain and empty lay: I'm sober'd from such phantasies, So get thee hence away. Nor bid me sigh for mine own cost, Nor count its loss, for mine annoy, Nor say my stubbornness hath lost A paradise of dainty joy: I'll not believe thee, till I know That reason turns thy pampered ape, And acts thy harlequin, to show That care's in every shape. Heart-achings, sighs, and grief-wrung tears, Shame-blushes at betrayed distress, Dissembled smiles, and jealous fears, Are aught but real happiness: Then will I mourn what now I brave, And suffer Celia's quirks to be (Like a poor fate-bewilder'd slave,) The rulers of my destiny. I'll weep and sigh when e'er she wills To frown--and when she deigns to smile It will be cure for all my ills, And, foolish still, I'll laugh the while; But till that comes, I'll bless the rules Experience taught, and deem it wise To hold thee as the game of fools, And all thy tricks despise. THE GIPSY'S SONG The gipsy's life is a merry life, And ranting boys we be; We pay to none or rent or tax, And live untith'd and free. None care for us, for none care we, And where we list we roam, And merry boys we gipsies be, Though the wild woods are our home. And come what will brings no dismay; Our minds are ne'er perplext; For if to-day is a swaly day, We meet with luck the next. And thus we sing and kiss our mates, While our chorus still shall be,-- Bad luck to tyrant magistrates, And the gipsies' camp still free. To mend old pans and bottom chairs Around the towns we tramp, Then a day or two our purse repairs, And plenty fills our camp; And our song we sing, and our fiddles sound Their catgut harmony, While echo fills the woods around With gipsy liberty.