Nor fear that to-morrow our temples may ache;
Neither stomach commotions,
Nor camomile potions,
Shall evermore cause us with terror to quake;
For what can so fire us, &c.
Let the miser’s deep coffers be fill’d to his mind now,
Let the man of ambition with honours abound,
Give the lover his mistress, complying and kind too,
And with laurel let Poets and Heroes be crown’d.
Let all be blest round me,