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I'll ne'er admire
That fatuous fire,

That is not what it seems;
For those, that now to us seem higher,
Like painted bubbles blown i' th' air,
By boys seem glorious and fair,

'Tis but in boys' esteems.
Rule of itself's a toil, and who would bear it,
But that 'twixt pride and avarice

And close revenge they'll share it.

Since all the world is but a stage,

And every man a player,
They're fools that lives or states engage ;
Let's act and juggle as others do,
Keep what's our own, get others' too,

Play whiffler, clown, or mayor.
For he that sticks to what his heart calls just,
Becomes a sacrifice and prey

To the prosperous whirligig's lust.

Each wise man first best loves himself,

Lives close, thinks, and obeys,
Makes not his soul a slave to’s pelf,

Nor idle squanders it away,
To cram their maws that taxes lay

On what he does or says:
For those grand chords that man to man do twist,
Now are not honesty and love,

But self and interest.

SATISFACTION,

I HAVE often heard men say,

That the philosophers of old,
Though they were good, and grave, and gray,

Did various opinions hold,
And with idolatry adore
The gods, that themselves had made before,
And we that are fools do do no more.

Every man desires what's good ;

But wherein that good consists
Is not by any understood.

This sets on work both pens and fist,
For this condemns what that approves,
And this man doth hate what that man loves.
And that's the grand rule that discord moves.

This would valiant be, that wise,

That's for th' sea, and this for land ;
All do judge upon surmise,

None do rightly understand.
These may be like, but are not that ;
Something there is that all drive at,
But only they differ about the what.

1

And from all these several ends

Springs diversity of action;
For every man his studies bends,

As opinion builds his faction:
Each man's his own god-smith ; what he
Thinks good, is good to him; and we
First make, then adore our deity.

A mind that's honest, pure, and just,

A sociable life and free,
A friend that dares not break a trust,

Yet dares die if occasion be;
A heart that dictates to the tongue,
A soul that's innocent and strong,
That can, yet will not, do any wrong.

He that has such a soul and a mind,
That is so blest and so inclin'd,
What all these do seek for, he does find.

THE CLUB.

PR’YTHEE, ben't so sad and serious,

Nothing got by grief or care ; Melancholy's too imperious,

Where it comes 'twill domineer. If thou hast a cloudy breast, In which thy cares would build a nest, Then drink good sack, 'twill make thee rest,

Where sorrows come not near.

Be it business, love, or sorrow,

That possesses thus thy mind, Bid them come again tomorrow.

We are now to mirth inclin'd. Fill thy cup, and drown them all, Sorrows still do for liquor call ; We'll make this Bacchus' festival,

And cast our cares behind.

SELECT POEMS

OF

SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE.

WITH

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,

FROM CHALMERS.

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