The Recruiting Officer, or, Over the Hills & Far Away/The Paradox

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THE PARADOX

WE bipeds made up of frail clay,
Alas! we're the children of ſorrow,
And though briſk and merry to-day,
We all may be wretched to morrow.

For ſunſhine's ſucceeded by ſorrow,
Then fearful of life's ſtormy weather,
Leſt pleaſure ſhould only bring pain,
Let us all be unhappy together.

I grant, the beſt bleſſings we know,
Is a friend, for true friendſhip's a treaſure,
And leſt that your friend prove a foe,
O taſte not the dangerous pleaſure.

Thus friendſip's a flimſy affair,
And riches and health are a bubble,
There's nothing delightful but care,
Nor any thing charming but trouble

If a man he would point out that life,
Which appears to him neareſt to heaven,
Let him thank his ſtars, chuſe him a wife,
To whom truth and honour is given.

But honour and truth are ſo rare,
And horns when they're cutting ſo tingle,
With all due reſpect to the fair,
I adviſe them to ſigh and live ſingle.

It appears from theſe premiſes plain,
That wiſdon is nothing but folly;
That pleaſure's a term that means pain,
And joy is your true melancholy.

Then thoſe who do laugh, ought to cry,
'Tis fine friſk and fun to be grieving,
And ſince we must all of us die,
We'll taſte no enjoyment while living.