Cast away care, he that loves sorrow
Lengthens not a day, nor can buy to-morrow:
Money is trash; and he that will spend it,
Let him drink merrily, Fortune will send it.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, oh, ho!
Play it off stiffly, we may not part so.

Wine is a charm, it heats the blood too,
Cowards it will arm, if the wine be good too;
Quickens the wit, and makes the back able,
Scorns to submit to the watch or constable.
Merrily, &c.

Pots fly about, give us more liquor,
Brothers of a rout, our brains will flow quicker;

I knew the story of a broken heart;
A sad tale 'twas, and such an one as some,
Of austere brow and cold mysterious eye,
Might scarcely deign to hear, or hearing it,
Would gravely smile, and then, with solemn air,
Shaking the doubtful head, turn back to dust.
But haply some may learn from it that sadness,
By which the heart grows better; for the tear
Which falls for woe doth ever purify
The soul that sends it, and returns again
A flood of peace, sweet as a seraph's prayer.

They loved, or thought they loved, for cunningly

Boïdion and Pythias make
Their gifts to thee: dear Cypris, take
These zones and pictures, for in love
The flute-girls oft their skill did prove.
Sailors and merchants know full well
How fair they were, how amiable,
And from full purse would gladly pay
For these bright zones and pictures gay.

And if she should ask,
“Look how drenched through
they are—
the sleeves of your robe!
What is it
that has made them so?”
how am I to reply?

Always laughin' she was—havin' her joke and singin'—
Her heart the like of a fountain where joy was dancin' and springin',
And ourselves by the fire would say, “She's stretchin' her hand to sorrow—
God save the child from the trouble, the trouble that comes tomorrow!”

Always happy she was—and happy it was Death found her
In the place that she loved the best, with the arms of love around her.
And ours is the answered prayer who were askin' against her sorrow.
God saved the child from the trouble, the trouble that comes tomorrow!

They lie who say that love must be
A sickness and a misery;
He that ne'er loved woman knows
Never anything but woes.

I too love a woman; yet
My clear eyes are never wet;
Death has claimed me for his own,
Yet I live by love alone.

Clad in flesh and blood I move,
Though a swan-white maid I love;
Though I love, I eat and sleep,
Music's service still I keep.

I'm no reed in water swaying,
My free thought goes lightly playing;
I'm no lover chill through all
The piled cloaks of Donegal.

I'm a man like others still,

Man relies on facts, but love is the test of a woman;
If she do not love, sentence is entered at once.

The lowest trees have tops; the ant her gall;
The fly her spleen; the little sparks their heat:
The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small;
And bees have stings, although they be not great.
Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs;
And love is love, in beggars as in kings.

Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords;
The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move;
The firmest faith is in the fewest words;
The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love.
True hearts have eyes, and ears, no tongues to speak;

'Gainst Love's unerring darts there's no defence,
They wound the blockhead, and the man of sense.

When other lips and other eyes
Their tales of love shall tell,
Which means the usual sort of lies
You've heard from many a swell;
When, bored with what you feel is bosh,
You'd give the world to see
A friend whose love you know will wash,
Oh, then remember me!

When Signor Solo goes his tours,
And Captain Craft's at Ryde,
And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,
And Lord knows who beside;
When to exist you feel a task
Without a friend at tea,
At such a moment I but ask
That you'll remember me.