Act 5 — A HEALTH TO MY BROTHER.

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BY R. PENN SMITH.

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Fill the bowl to the brim, there’s no use in complaining;

We’ll drown the dark dream, while a care is remaining;

And though the sad tear may embitter the wine,

Drink half, never fear, the remainder is mine.

True, others may drink in the lightness of soul,

But the pleasure I think is the tear in the bowl;

Then fill up the bowl with the roseate wine,

And the tears of my soul shall there mingle with thine.

And that being done, we will quaff it, my brother;

Who drinks of the one should partake of the other.

Thy head is now gray, and I follow with pain.—

Pshaw! think of our day, and we’re children again.

’Tis folly to grieve that our life’s early vision

Shone but to deceive, and then flit in derision.

A fairy-like show, far too fragile to last;

As bright as the rain-bow, and fading as fast.

’Tis folly to mourn that our hearts’ foolish kindness

Received in return but deceit for their blindness;

And vain to regret that false friends have all flown;

Since fortune hath set, we can buffet alone.

Then fill up the glass, there’s no use in repining

That friends quickly leave us, when fortune’s declining—

Let each drop a tear in the roseate bowl;

A tear that’s sincere, and then pledge to the soul.