BALLAD. (We bipeds, made up of frail clay)

We bipeds, made up of frail clay, Alas are the children of sorrow. And though brish and merry to-day, We all may be wretched to-morrow:

For sunshine's succeeded by rain, Then fearful of life's stormy weather, Lest pleasure should only bring pain, Let us all be unhappy together.

I grant the best blessing we know Is a friend, for true friendship's a treasure, And yet, lest your friend prove a foe, Oh taste not the dangerous pleasure:

Thus friendship's a flimsy affair, Thus riches and health are a bubble, Thus there's nothing delightful but care, Nor any thing pleasing but trouble.

If a mortal would point out that life Which on earth could be nearest to heaven, Let him, thanking his stars, chuse a wife To whom truth and honour are given:

But honour and truth are so rare, And horns, when they're cutting, so tingle, That, with all my respect to the fair, I'd advise him to sigh and live single.

It appears from these premises plain That wisdom is nothing but folly, That pleasure's a term that means pain, And that joy is your true melancholy;

That all those who laugh ought to cry, That 'tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving, And that since we must all of us die, We should taste no enjoyment while living: