HARRY CAREY'S GENERAL REPLY TO THE LIBELLING GENTRY WHO ARE ANGRY AT HIS WELFARE.

With an honest old friend, and a merry old Song,
And a flask of old Port let me sit the night long;
And laugh at the malice of those who repine,
That they must swig porter, while I can drink wine.

I envy no mortal tho' ever so great,

Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate:
But what I abhor, and esteem as a curse,
Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse.

Then dare to be generous, dauntless and gay,
Let's merrily pass Life's remainder away:
Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise,
For the more we are envy'd the higher we rise.

GOOD REASON FOR LOVING.

VOL. I.

HARRY CAREY.

Saw you the nymph whom I adore?
Saw you the goddess of my heart?
And can you bid me love no more,
Or can you think I feel no smart?

So many charms around her shine,

Who can the sweet temptation fly?
Spite of her scorn she's so divine,
That I must love her though I die.

N

A DITHYRAMBICK FOR TWO VOICES.

HARRY CAREY.

Cupid no more shall give me grief,
Or anxious cares oppress my soul;
While generous Bacchus brings relief,
And drowns 'em in a flowing bowl.

Celia, thy scorn I now despise,

Thy boasted empire I disown,

This takes the brightness from thine eyesAnd makes it sparkle in my own.

THE MAID'S PETITION.

HARRY CAREY.

Cruel Creature! can you leave me,
Can you then ungrateful prove?
Did you court me to deceive me,
And to slight my constant love.

False ungrateful thus to woo me,
Thus to make my heart a prize,
First to ruin and undo me,

Then to scorn and tyrannize.

Shall I send to Heav'n my pray'r,
Shall I all my wrongs relate,
Shall I curse the dear betrayer?
No alas! it is too late.

Cupid! pity my condition,

Pierce this unrelenting swain! Hear a tender Maid's petition, And restore my love again.

THE GROVES, THE PLAINS.

HARRY CAREY.

The groves, the plains,
The nymphs, the swains,

The silver stream, the cooling shade,

All, all declare

How false you are,

How many hearts you have betray'd.

Ungrateful go,

Too well I know,

Your fatal, false deluding art;

To every she,

As well as me,

You make an offering of your heart.

LOVE WITHOUT ALLAY.

HARRY CAREY.

Gazing on my idol treasure,
All my soul is lost in joy;
She affords eternal pleasure,
And can never, never cloy.

Ev'ry motion, ev'ry feature,

Shines with some peculiar grace, Never sure was human creature, Blest with such an angel's face.

LOVE FOR LOVE'S SAKE.

HARRY CAREY.

I'll range around the shady bowers,
And gather all the sweetest flowers;
I'll strip the garden and the grove,
To make a garland for my love.

When, in the sultry heat of day,
My thirsty nymph does panting lay;
I'll hasten to the river's brink,

And drain the floods but she shall drink.

At night to rest her weary head,
I'll make my love a grassy bed;
And with green boughs, I'll form a shade,
That nothing may her rest invade.

And while dissolv'd in sleep she lies,
Myself shall never close these eyes;
But gazing still with fond delight,
I'll watch my charmer all the night.

And then as soon as cheerful day,
Dispels the darksome shades away;
Forth to the forest I'll repair,
To seek provision for my fair.

Thus will I spend the day and night—
Still mixing labour with delight;
Regarding nothing I endure,
So I can ease for her procure.

But if the nymph whom thus I love,
To her fond swain should faithless prove,
I'll seek some dismal distant shore,

And never think of woman more.

FROM THE COURT TO THE COTTAGE.

HARRY CAREY.

From the court to the cottage convey me away,
For I'm weary of grandeur, and what they call
When pride without measure,

And pomp

Make life in a circle of hurry decay.

without pleasure,

gay:

Far remote and retir'd from the noise of the town, I'll exchange my brocade for a plain russet gown; My friends shall be few,

But well chosen and true,

And sweet recreation our evening shall crown.

With a rural repast, (a rich banquet for me)
On a mossy green turf, near some shady old tree,
The river's clear brink,

Shall afford me my drink,

And temperance my friendly physician shall be.

Ever calm and serene, with contentment still blest,
Not too giddy with joy, or with sorrow deprest,
I'll neither invoke,

Or repine at Death's stroke,

But retire from the world as I would to my rest.