TELL me no more of Flames in Love,
That common dull pretence,
Fools in Romances use to move
Soft Hearts of little Sense:
No, Strephon, I’m not such a Slave,
Love’s banish’d Power to own;
Since Interest and Convenience have
So long usurp’d his Throne.
No burning Hope or cold Despair,
Dull Groves or purling Streams,
Sighing and talking to the Air
In Love’s fantastick Dreams,
Can move my Pity or my Hate,
But Satyrist I’ll prove,
And all ridiculous create
That shall pretend to Love.
Love was a Monarch once, ’tis true,
And God-like rul’d alone,
And tho’ his Subjects were but few,
Their Hearts were all his own;
But since the Slaves revolted are,
And turn’d into a State,
Their Int’rest is their only Care,
And Love grows out of Date.
A SONG.
Set by Mr. Fishburn.
[[Listen]]
WEalth breeds Care, Love, Hope and Fear;
What does Love our Business hear?
While Bacchus merry does appear,
Fight on and fear no sinking,
Charge it briskly to the Brim,
’Till the flying Top-sails swim,
We owe the great Discovery to him
Of this new World of Drinking.
Grave Cabals that States refine,
Mingle their Debates with Wine;
Ceres and the God o’th’ Wine;
Makes every great Commander.
Let sober Sots Small-beer subdue,
The Wise and valiant Wine does woe;
The Stagyrite had the honour to
Be drunk with Alexander.
Stand to your Arms, and now Advance
A Health to the English King of France;
On to the next a bon Speranze,
By Bacchus and Apollo.
Thus in State I lead the Van,
Fall in your Place by your right-hand Man,
Beat Drum! now March! Dub a dub, ran dan,
He’s a Whig that will not follow.