My master and the neighbours all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I’d better be A slave and row a galley; But when my seven long years are out, O, then I’ll marry Sally; O, then we’ll wed, and then we’ll bed-- But not in our alley! _445._ _A Drinking-Song_ Bacchus must now his power resign-- I am the only God of Wine! It is not fit the wretch should be In competition set with me, Who can drink ten times more than he. Make a new world, ye powers divine! Stock’d with nothing else but Wine: Let Wine its only product be, Let Wine be earth, and air, and sea-- And let that Wine be all for me! WILLIAM BROOME ?-1745 _446._ _The Rosebud_ Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose, The beauties of thy leaves disclose! --But thou, fair Nymph, thyself survey In this sweet offspring of a day. That miracle of face must fail, Thy charms are sweet, but charms are frail: Swift as the short-lived flower they fly, At morn they bloom, at evening die: Though Sickness yet a while forbears, Yet Time destroys what Sickness spares: Now Helen lives alone in fame, And Cleopatra’s but a name: Time must indent that heavenly brow, And thou must be what they are now. _447._ _Belinda’s Recovery from Sickness_ Thus when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth; Our moulder’d frame rebuilt assumes New beauty, and for ever blooms, And, crown’d with youth’s immortal pride, We angels rise, who mortals died. JAMES THOMSON 1700-1748 _448._ _On the Death of a particular Friend_ As those we love decay, we die in part, String after string is sever’d from the heart; Till loosen’d life, at last but breathing clay, Without one pang is glad to fall away. Unhappy he who latest feels the blow! Whose eyes have wept o’er every friend laid low, Dragg’d ling’ring on from partial death to death, Till, dying, all he can resign is--breath. GEORGE LYTTELTON, LORD LYTTELTON 1709-1773 _449._ _Tell me, my Heart if this be Love_ When Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love? Whene’er she speaks, my ravish’d ear No other voice than hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve: Tell me, my heart, if this be love? If she some other youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love? When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before-- The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?