The grandest deeds of the race are writ on the faded scroll,
The truest rivers of good from villainous fountains roll;
The perfect raptures of life are reared in the arms of care,
And Hope with her joys dispels the darkness of our despair.
MY MOLLIE, O!
'Twas in the summer's sweet perfume,
When roses bloomed and holly, O,
That in the brightness of her bloom,
I first did meet my Mollie, O.
Although she said for lives to love
Was nothing but pure folly, O,
My heart was lit with light above,
And I true loved my Mollie, O.
O, swift and fast the days did flee
And seemed most bright and jolly, O,
For evermore was near to me
My fair and lovely Mollie, O.
Now I doth sit through all the day
And nurse my melancholy, O,
For from me she has turned away,
O, false and fickle Mollie, O!
SING NOT OF BEAUTY.
Sing not of beauty's grace to me;
Its very name a story tells
Of doubly dark inconstancy,
Love falser than a hundred hells.
Its face is often but a screen
To hide a devil's heart of guile,
Of thoughts and deeds of shameful mien,
By winning looks of heartless wile.
Its laughing smile is but the gleam
That springs from dross of foulest make;
It stirs a sweet but idle dream,
Then leaves the trusting heart to break.
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