A Memento Mori.

AH! the sad houre
When friends shall loure
And say, He's breathing now his last,
When thoughts of Love and Drink are past;
When Tyrant Death usurps that brain,
Where little Maggot us'd to reign;
And with its damn'd unmodish Witches,
Pulls out the flame of my Caprici's;
And with ill tasts that Mouth's infecting,
Which Cheats in Wine was still detecting,
When 'stead of Frontigniac or Champaign,
They give me juice of E La Campane ▪
And 'stead of Songs and bawdy Verses,
One Hopkins's damn'd Rime rehearses;
Another, he falls on his Knees;
That, that alone is a Disease!
For (Iack) thou knowst I ne're could pray,
Unless 'twere on a Holiday;
When Organ, Voice and Violin,
Wheedles our wicked thoughts from sin;
And then methinks I am in Heaven,
With Bacchus drinking Brimmers seven.
When Pan and Phoebus make us Musick,
Without which, praying wou'd make you-sick:
But without Complement or Pray'r,
Which are but words, and words but Air▪
Bacchus will take me to his Table,
And seat me 'midst the jolly Rabble.