Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CARELESS GALLANT, by THOMAS JORDAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CARELESS GALLANT, by                 Poet Analysis    
First Line: Let us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice
Last Line: Since all shall be nothing a hundred years hence.
Variant Title(s): Coronemus Nos Rosis Antequam;the Epicure;song
Subject(s): Death; Drinks & Drinking; Dead, The; Wine


LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice,
The changeable world to our joy is unjust,
All treasures uncertain, then down with your dust;
In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,
For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.

We'll sport and be free with Frank, Betty, and Dolly,
Have lobsters and oysters to cure melancholy,
Fish dinners will make a man spring like a flea,
Dame Venus, love's lady, was born of the sea,
With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense,
For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

Your beautiful bit who hath all eyes upon her,
That her honesty sells for a hogo of honour,
Whose lightness and brightness doth cast such a splendour,
That none are thought fit but the stars to attend her,
Though now she seems pleasant and sweet to the sense,
Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Your usurer that in the hundred takes twenty,
Who wants in his wealth and pines in his plenty,
Lays up for a season which he shall ne'er see;
The year of one thousand eight hundred and three
Shall have changed all his bags, his houses and rents,
For a worm-eaten coffin a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,
And turn our tranquillity to sighs and tears,
Let's eat, drink and play ere the worms do corrupt us,
For I say that, Post mortem nulla voluplas,
Let's deal with our chances that so we may thence,
Be held in remembrance a hundred years hence.


Your Chancery-lawyer who by "conscience" thrives,
In spinning a suit to the length of three lives,
A suit which the client doth wear out in slavery,
While pleader makes conscience a cloak for his knavery,
May boast of his cunning but i' th' present tense,
For non est inventus a hundred years hence.

I never could gain satisfaction upon
Your dreams of a bliss when we're cold as a stone;
Though sages may say we're to Bacchus a debtor,
By Venus! are sages themselves so much better?
And Abigail, Hannah, and sister Prudence,
Will simper to nothing a hundred years hence.

The butterfly courtier, that pageant of state,
The mouse-trap of honour and May-game of Fate.
With all his ambitions, intrigues, and his tricks,
Must die like a clown, and then drops into Styx,
His plots against death are too slender a fence,
For he'll be out of place a hundred years hence.

Yea, the poet himself that so loftily sings,
As he scorns any subjects but heroes or kings,
Must to the capriccios of fortune submit,
And often be counted a fool for his wit;
Thus beauty, wit, wealth, law, learning and sense,
All comes to nothing a hundred years hence.

Your most Christian monsieur who rants it in riot,
Not suffering his more Christian neighbors live quiet,
Whose numberless legions that to him belongs
Consists of more nations than Babel had tongues,
Though numerous as dust, in despite of defence,
Shall all lie in ashes a hundred years hence.

We mind not the councils of such bloody elves;
Let us set foot to foot, and be true to ourselves;
Our honesty from our good fellowship springs;
We aim at no selfish preposterous things.
We'll seek no preferment by subtle pretence,
Since all shall be nothing a hundred years hence.







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