It lays the careful head to rest,
Calms palpitations in the breast,
Renders our lives' misfortune sweet,
And Venus frolic in the sheet.
'Then let the chill sirocco blow,

And gird us round with hills of snow,
Or else go whistle to the shore,
And make the hollow mountains roar.
Whilst we together jovial sit

Careless, and crown'd with mirth and wit;
Where though bleak winds confine us home,
Our fancies round the world shall roam.
We'll think of all the friends we know,
And drink to all worth drinking to:
When having drank all thine and mine,
We rather shall want health than wine.
But where friends fail us, we'll supply
Our friendships with our charity;
Men that remote in sorrows live,
Shall by our lusty brimmers thrive.
We'll drink the wanting into wealth,
And those that languish into health,
The afflicted into joy, th' opprest
Into security and rest.

The worthy in disgrace shall find
Favour return again more kind,
And in restraint who stifled lie,
Shall taste the air of liberty.

The brave shall triumph in success,
The lovers shall have mistresses.
Poor unregarded virtue praise,
And the neglected poet bays.

Thus shall our healths do others good,
Whilst we ourselves do all we would;
For freed from envy and from care,
What would we be but what we are?
'Tis the plump grape's immortal juice
That does this happiness produce,
And will preserve us free together,
Maugre mischance, or wind and weather.
Then let old Winter take his course,
And roar abroad till he be hoarse,
And his lungs crack with ruthless ire,
It shall but serve to blow our fire.
Let him our little castle ply,
With all his loud artillery,
Whilst sack and claret man the fort,"
His fury shall become our sport.

Or, let him Scotland take, and there
Confine the plotting Presbyter ;

His zeal may freeze, whilst we kept warın
With love and wine, can know no harm.

AN ELEGY UPON THE LORD HASTINGS

AMONGST the mourners that attend his herse
With flowing eyes, and wish each tear a verse,
T' embalm his fame, and his dear merit save
Uninjur'd from th' oblivion of the grave;
A sacrificer I am come to be,

Of this poor off'ring to his memory.
O could our pious meditations thrive
So well, to keep his better part alive!
So that, instead of him, we could but find
Those fair examples of his letter'd mind:
Virtuous emulation then might be
Our hopes of good men, though not such as he.
But in his hopeful progress since he's crost,
Pale virtue droops, now her best pattern's lost.
'Twas hard, neither divine, nor human parts,
The strength of goodness, learning, and of arts,
Full crowds of friends, nor all the pray'rs of then,
Nor that he was the pillar of his stem,
Affection's mark, secure of all men's hate,
Could rescue him from the sad stroke of fate.
Why was not th' air drest in prodigious forms,
To groan in thunder, and to weep in storms?
And, as at some men's fall, why did not his
In nature work a metamorphosis?

No; he was gentle, and his soul was sent
A silent victim to the firmament.

Weep, ladies, weep, lament great Hastings' fall;
His house is bury'd in his funeral:

Bathe him in tears, till there appear no trace
Of those sad blushes in his lovely face:
Let there be in 't of guilt no seeming sense,
Nor other colour than of innocence.

For he was wise and good, though he was young;
Well suited to the stock from whence he sprung:
And what in youth is ignorance and vice,
In him prov'd piety of an excellent price.
Farewel, dear lord, and since thy body must
In time return to its first matter, dust;
Rest in thy melancholy tomb in peace: for who
Would longer live, that could but now die so?

G. WODELATT, Pinter, Patt moster-row, Indon