Hence! restless care, and low design;
Hence! foreign compliments and wine:
Let gen'rous BRITONS, brave and free,
Still boast their Punch and honesty.
Life is a bumper fill'd by fate,
And we the guests who share the treat;
Where strong, insipid, sharp and sweet,
Each other duly temp'ring, meet.
A while with joy the scene is crown'd;
A while the catch and toast go round:
And, when the full carouse is o'er,
Death puffs the lights, and shuts the door.
Say then, Physicians of each kind,
Who cure the body, or the mind;
What harm in drinking can there be,
Since Punch and life so well agree?
"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).
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Saturday, February 19, 2011
Life is a Bumper Fill'd by Fate
Thomas Blacklock, On Punch: An Epigram, in Poems on Several Occasions (Edinburgh: Hamilton, Balfour and Neill, 1754), p. 179: