This World is a Stage

This world is a stage, where all men engage, And each acts his part in the throng; There is nought but confusion, mere folly, delusion, And the rest of it all is a song, &c.

The parson so grave, says your souls he will save, And shew you the right from the wrong, By piously teaching, and long winding preaching, He sets off his flock with a song, &c.

The statesman he smiles, at the time he beguiles, And feeds you with promises long, He squeezes your hand, and calls you his friend, While he means nothing else but a song, &c.

The Doctor he fills you with balsams and pills, And tells you that you will live long, But believe me 'tis true, its the guineas in view, And the rest of it all is a song, &c.

The soldier he rattles of sieges and battles, And wonders he has been among, His preferment and merit are both like his spirit, You may see they are all but a song, &c.

The ship-master cries, see the clouds how they rise, Look about my brave boys, it blows strong, Come fill me some flip, and I'll warrant the ship, Will as sure reach her port as a song, &c.

The drover he'll prattle of heifers and cattle, And parcels he has been among, All day he will fret until he can cheat, Then he sells off his stots with a song, &c,

The silly old prude, she will say you are rude, If you touch but her hand in the throng, But bring her aside, and you'll manage her pride, And her virtue bring down to a song, &c.

The gentle coquette, she is all in a pett, At morning if toy let be wrong, All day she will pass consulting her glass, And at night die away with a song, &c.

Come let us be merry, drive hence melancholy, Since we are brave fellows among, Let's each fill our glasses, taste life as it passes, And each of us sing a good song, &c.