And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches. Ah! let the rusty theme alone! But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, 'Tis gone a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dusty crypt Of darken'd forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Long since, and came no more; With peals of genial clamour sent From many a tavern-door, With twisted quirks and happy hits, From misty men of letters; The tavern-hours of mighty wits Thine elders and thy betters. Hours, when the Poet's words and looks Had yet their native glow: Not yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show; So mix for ever with the past, Like all good things on earth! For should I prize thee, could'st thou last, At half thy real worth? I hold it good, good things should pass : With time I will not quarrel : It is but yonder empty glass That makes me maudlin-moral. Head-waiter of the chop-house here, To which I most resort, I too must part: I hold thee dear For this good pint of port. For this, thou shalt from all things suck Marrow of mirth and laughter; And, whereso'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after. But thou wilt never move from hence, Thy latter days increased with pence Old boxes, larded with the steam We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, Thy care is, under polish'd tins, To serve the hot-and-hot ; To come and go, and come again, Returning like the pewit, And watch'd by silent gentlemen, That trifle with the cruet. 194 WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. Live long, ere from thy topmost head The thick-set hazel dies; Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread The corners of thine eyes: Live long, nor feel in head or chest Our changeful equinoxes, Till mellow Death, like some late guest, Shall call thee from the boxes. But when he calls, and thou shalt cease And, laying down an unctuous lease No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, A pint-pot, neatly graven. LADY CLARE. LORD RONALD courted Lady Clare, "He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me." |