WINE, wine in the morning 'Tis the sun ripes the grape, And to drinking gives light; We imitate him When by noon we're at height; They steal wine who take it When he's out of sight. Boy, fill all the glasses, Fill them up now he shines ; The higher he rises The more he refines, For wine and wit fall [SIR WILLIAM YONGE.] In vain, dear Chloe, you suggest If then you think that I can find You've reason for your fears; If in my way I should by chance I like but while I view; How slight the glance, how faint the kiss, Compar'd to that substantial bliss, Which I receive from you! R With wanton flight the curious bee From flower to flower still wanders free; And where each blossom blows, Extracts the juice from all he meets, But, for his quintessence of sweets, He ravishes the rose. So my fond fancy to employ From nymph to nymph I roam SHOULD some perverse malignant star The wearied pilgrim, when the sun WHY will Florella, while I gaze, And chide them from the only face To shun your scorn, and ease my care, Still gentle usage find. But oh! how faint is every joy So restless exiles doom'd to roam |