To the Tune of, Montrose’s Lines.
I Toss and tumble thro’ the night,
And wish th’ approaching day,
Thinking when darkness yields to light,
I’ll banish care away:
But when the glorious sun doth rise,
And chear all nature round,
All thoughts of pleasure in me dies;
My cares do still abound.
My tortur’d and uneasy mind
Bereaves me of my rest;
My thoughts are to all pleasure blind,
With care I’m still opprest:
But had I her within my breast,
Who gives me so much pain,
My raptur’d soul would be at rest,
And softest joys regain.
I’d not envy the god of war,
Bless’d with fair Venus’ charms,
Nor yet the thundring Jupiter,
In fair Alcmena’s arms:
Paris with Helen’s beauty blest,
Wou’d be a jest to me;
If of her charms I were possest,
Thrice happier I wou’d be.
But since the Gods do not ordain
Such happy fate for me,
I dare not ‘gainst their will repine,
Who rule my destiny.
With sprightly wine I’ll drown my care,
And cherish up my soul;
When e’er I think on my lost fair,
I’ll drown her in the bowl.
– New Words by Different Hands.