THOMAS JORDAN
[1612(?)-1685]

LET US DRINK AND BE MERRY

us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice, h claret and sherry, theorbo and voice! changeable world to our joy is unjust, All treasure's uncertain,

Then down with your dust!

frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence, r we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.

'e'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly,
ave oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy:
ish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea,
Dame Venus, love's lady,

Was born of the sea:

With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense,
For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown'd And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground. Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendour That one but the stars

Are thought fit to attend her,

Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense,
Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,
Turn all our tranquill'ty to sighs and to tears?
Let's eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us,
'Tis certain, Post mortem

Nulla voluptas.

For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense,
Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.

247

ABRAHAM COWLEY

[1618-1667]

A SUPPLICATION

AWAKE, awake, my Lyre!

And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
Though so exalted she

And I so lowly be

Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark, how the strings awake:

And, though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear

A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;

Now all thy charms apply;

Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,

And she to wound, but not to cure.

Too weak too wilt thou prove

My passion to remove;

Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
For thou canst never tell my humble tale

In sounds that will prevail,

Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;

All thy vain mirth lay by,

Bid thy strings silent lie,

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

248

CHEER UP, MY MATES

(Sitting and drinking in the chair made out of the relics of Sir Francis Drake's ship.)

249

CHEER up, my mates, the wind does fairly blow;
Clap on more sail, and never spare;

Farewell, all lands, for now we are

In the wide sea of drink, and merrily we go.
Bless me, 'tis hot! another bowl of wine,
And we shall cut the burning Line:

Hey, boys! she scuds away, and by my head I know
We round the world are sailing now.
What dull men are those who tarry at home,
When abroad they might wantonly roam,
And gain such experience, and spy, too,
Such countries and wonders, as I do!
But pr'ythee, good pilot, take heed what you do,
And fail not to touch at Peru!

With gold there the vessel we'll store,
And never, and never be poor,

No, never be poor any more.

DRINKING

THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night:

Nothing in Nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there—for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

250

ON THE Death of Mr. WILLIAM HERVEY

Ir was a dismal and a fearful night:

Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling Light,
When Sleep, Death's image, left my troubled breast
By something liker Death possest.

My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,

And on my soul hung the dull weight
Of some intolerable fate.

What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know!

My sweet companion and my gentle peer,
Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end for ever and my life to moan?
O, thou hast left me all alone!
Thy soul and body, when death's agony
Besieged around thy noble heart,

Did not with more reluctance part
Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee.

My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee!
Life and this world henceforth will tedious be:
Nor shall I know hereafter what to do

If once my griefs prove tedious too.
Silent and sad I walk about all day,

As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by
Where their hid treasures lie;
Alas! my treasure's gone; why do I stay?

Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
How oft unwearied have we spent the nights,

Till the Ledæan stars, so famed for love,
Wonder'd at us from above!

We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;
But search of deep Philosophy,

Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry

Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say
Have ye not seen us walking every day?
Was there a tree about which did not know
The love betwixt us two?

Or

Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; your sad branches thicker join

And into darksome shades combine,

Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid!

Large was his soul: as large a soul as e'er
Submitted to inform a body here;

High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have.
But low and humble as his grave.

So high that all the virtues there did come,
As to their chiefest seat

Conspicuous and great;

So low, that for me too it made a room.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught
As if for him Knowledge had rather sought;
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
In such a short mortality.

Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,
Still did the notions throng

About his eloquent tongue;

Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Yet never did his God or friends forget;
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
Retired, and gave to them their due.