SITTING AND DRINKING IN THE CHAIR MADE OUT OF THE RELICS OF SIR FRANCIS DRAKE'S SHIP [THE PELICAN; OR 'THE GOLDEN HIND']. CHEER up, my mates! The wind does fairly blow! Hey, boys! she scuds away! and, by my head, I know And gain such experience! and spy too, Such countries, and wonders, as I do! But, prithee, good Pilot! take heed what you do; And fail not to touch at Peru! With gold, there our vessel we'll store; And never, and never be poor! No, never be poor any more! What do I mean! What thoughts do me misguide! As well upon a staff may witches ride. Their fancied journeys in the air, As I sail round the ocean in this Chair! 'Tis true! But yet this Chair, which here you see, (For all its quiet now, and gravity) Has wandered, and has travelled more Than ever beast, or fish, or bird, or ever tree, before! In every air, and every sea, 't has been! 'T has compassed all the earth; and all the heavens 't has seen! Let not the Pope's itself, with this compare! The pious Wand'rers' fleet, saved from the flame, A squadron of immortal Nymphs became ! Nor has the first poetic ship of Greece (Though now a star she so triumphant show, Bright as her ancient freight, the shining Fleece!) Than these have done, or seen, E'en since they goddesses, and this a star has been), Is made the seat of rest at last! The World will do 't! For Curiosity An old wheel of that chariot to see; Which PHETON so rashly brake: Yet what could that say more, than these remains of Great relic! Thou too, in this port of ease, The breath of Fame, like an auspicious gale, The Straits of Time too narrow are for thee! And steer the endless course of vast Eternity! Take for thy Sail, this Verse! and for thy Pilot, me! THE RESOLVE. TELL me not of a face that 's fair, Though, if I were to take my choice, The only argument can move The glories of you Ladies be Roses out-red their lips and cheeks! Else I'm a Servant to the Glass That's with Canary lined! THE COUNSEL. WHY 's my friend so melancholy? Wealth and women make men mad! Does thy Mistress seem to fly thee? Try again; and don't give over! Ply her! She's thine own! She 's thine own! Cowardice undoes a Lover! They are tyrants, if you moan! If not thyself, nor love, can move her; |