John Gay

Remote from cities liv'd a swain, Unvex'd with all the cares of gain; His head was silver'd o'er with age, And long experience made him sage.

Adieu, she cried, and waved her lily hand.

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd.

Life is a jest; and all things show it. I thought so once; and now I know it.

My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.

So comes a reckoning when the banquet's o'er,— The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more.

'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.