THE American Mock-Bird, OR SONGSTER's DELIGHT, SONG LXXXVII

A Whimsical lover's a prey to each Care; He's lost to himself, while he lives to the Fair; He dreams all the Day, and he wakes all the Night; His Sorrow is lasting, and short his Delight.

The sparking Charms of the full-flowing Bowl Inspire us with Friendship, and brighten the Soul; Then pox on all Care! come, fill up the Glass, And round the blythe Circle, my Boys, let it pass.

Let my pretty Molly go round for the Toast; I'm pleas'd if she's Mine, and the same if she's lost: As long as she loves me, I know she'll be true; And if she should alter—why! so will I too.

Should she be Inconstant, why should I be Sad? 'Tis Time to grow wiser, and not to go Mad; If generous and good, she will value true Love; And the loss of a Jilt is a blessing, by Jove.

The loss of a Mistress shall never destroy The blissful Tranquillity which I enjoy: Whatever may happen, I'll wisely prepare Indifference, that Sovereign cure of all care.