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Treating thy friends, as first fruits of thy kingdom,
With flowing bumpers to the quiet rest
Of thy good kinsman's soul,

COUNT ZATERLOO.

Yes, Bernard, thou say'st well: and thy dark visage,

Lank and unsuited to all mirth, would mark thee
The undertaker, who amongst the guests
Had come on matters of his sable trade,
Grinning a strange, uncomely, jaw-bone smile
O'er the fair prospect of his future gains.

SEBASTIAN.

Methinks, at least, in this gay, jolly band,

He scarcely would discover needy men,
Who better days have seen.

COUNT ZATERLOO.

Tut, man! thou art too grave; thou art too grave—

Which of you sung that song with merry lay
Some few nights since? Come, let us have it now.

SONG.

Ye who fain would happy be,
Give the hand, and join with me:
They who toil the weary day,
They who bend with locks of grey,
They who tread the beaten way,
Fools who work that we may play,