Let us be blith, In spight of Death's Syth, And with an Heart and half, Drink to our Friends, And think of no Ends, But keep us sound and safe: While Healths do go round, No Malady's found, The Maw-sick in the Morning, For want of his wonted strain; Is as a Warning, To double it over again. Let us maintain Our Traffique with _Spain_, And both the _Indies_ slight; Give us their Wines, Let them keep their Mines, We'll pardon Eighty Eight: There's more certain Wealth Secur'd from stealth, In one Pipe of Canary, Than in an unfortunate Isle; Let us be wary, We do not our selves beguile. _The_ LATIN _to the foregoing_ SONG. _Sors sine visu, Form·q; Risu, Sint pro DÊmone; HÊc malefica, Ita venefica, Fallax utraque; Sors mea est fors, Sin˘sque vecors, Sed fraus nulla; tu toto In fundo si veritas sit, Potu Epoto, Oceanus situs fit._ _Honor & lusus, Stultis illusus, Car‚ catenat‚, H‚cque (ut fatur) Catus necatur, Morte non parat‚: Dum vero GrÊcamur, Non Renovamur, Nam Aqua VitÊ vinum, Vires spirit˙sque dat, Idque dicunum, A morte nos Elevat._ _Fam simus lÊti, Spret‚ vi lethi, Cordatissime: Ut Combibones (non ut gnathones) Saxti-rectique: Dum proculÊ Spument, Morbi absument: Ac manË Corpus Onustum, PrÊ alienatione, Acuit gustum, Pro Iteratione_. _Prestet quotannis, Merks cum_ Hispanis, India _sit sola; Vinum prÊbeant, Aurum teneant, Absit spinola: Sunt opes, pro certo, Magis ‡ furto, In Vini potione, Quam Terra Incognit‚; Pro cautione, Ne nobis fit subdola._ _The Raree-show, from Father_ HOPKINS. [Music] From Father _Hopkins_, whose Vein did inspire him, _Bays_ sends this Raree-show publick to view; Prentices, Fops and their Footmen admire him, Thanks Patron, Painter, and Monsieur _Grabeau_. Each Actor on the Stage his luck bewailing, Finds that his loss is Infallibly true; _Smith_, _Nokes_, and _Leigh_ in a Feaver with railing, Curse Poet, Painter, and Monsieur _Grabeau_. _Betterton_, _Betterton_, thy Decorations, And the Machines were well written we knew; But all the Words were such stuff we want Patience, And little better is Monsieur _Grabeu_. D---- me says _Underhill_, I'm out two hundred, Hoping that Rain-bows and Peacocks would do; Who thought infallible _Tom_ could have blunder'd, A Plague upon him and Monsieur _Grabeu_. _Lane_ thou hast no Applause for thy Capers, Tho' all without thee would make a Man spew; And a Month hence will not pay for the Tapers, Spite of _Jack Laureat_ and Monsieur _Grabeu_. _Bays_ thou wouldst have thy Skill thought universal, Tho' thy dull Ear be to Musick untrue; Then whilst we strive to confute the _Rehearsal_, Prithee learn thrashing of Monsieur _Grabeu_.