A Lyrick to Mirth.

WHile the milder Fates consent,
Let's enjoy our merryment:
Drink, and dance, and pipe, and play;
Kisse our Dollies night and day:
Crown'd with clusters of the Vine;
Let us sit, and quaffe our wine.
Call on Bacchus; chaunt his praise;
Shake the Thyrse, and bite the Bayes:
Rouze Anacreon from the dead;
And return him drunk to bed:
Sing o're Horace; for ere long
Death will come and mar the song:
Then shall Wilson and Cotitre
Never sing, or play more here.