Page:Six favourite songs (1).pdf/3

 Let epicures feast on their turtles for me,

Their ortolans, pheasants, and sturgeon;

With Frenchify’d dishes, high sauces, and be

A prey to the doctor and surgeon.

With all kinds of wine let them pamper their taste,

Nor ought to their palates deny;

If they to their latter end wilfully haste,

Themselves are to blame, and not I.

On dress, pomp, and grandeur, I fix not my mind,

They’re matters unworthy a care;

Beneath those fine trappings we often times find

The pangs of remorse and despair.

Gay Pleasure’s a phantom exceedingly fair,

Which vainly we hope to embrace;

We grasp at a substance, she melts into air,

And leaves not behind her a trace.

Then why should we make such a pother about

What no one could never attain,

Tho’ the sweet illusion is tempting, no doubt,

Till banish’d by old age and pain.

But soon we the idle pursuit of her charms,

By dear-bought experience despise,

Then blooming good humour still dwell in my arms,

My motto be—