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CORIN, most unhappie swaine,
Full of danger is the rocke:
Wolfes and beares doe kepe the woodes; Forests tangled are with brakes; Meadowes subject are to floodes; Moores are full of miry lakes.
Yet to shunne all plaine, and hill, Forest, moore, and meadow-ground, Hunger will as surely kill:
How may then reliefe be found?
Such is hapless Corin's fate:
Since my waywarde love begunne, Equall doubts begett debate
What to seeke, and what to shunne.
Spare to speake, and spare to speed;
Yet her sight augments my paine.
What may then poor Corin doe?
Is the lover's sharpest hell.
A SONG TO THE LUTE IN MUSICKE.
WHERE griping griefs the heart would wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
There Music, with her silver sound,
With speed is wont to send redress:
In joy it makes our mirth abound,
In woe it cheers our heavy sprites; Distracted heads relief hath found,
By music's pleasant sweet delights: Our senses all, and e'en what more, Are subject unto music's lore.
The gods by music have their praise ;
In seas, whom pirates would destroy,
O heav'nly gift, that rules the mind,
To comfort man, whom cares would nip!
James Dawson was one of the Manchester rebels, who was hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington Common, July 30, 1746.
COME listen to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts, and lovers dear;
And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Young Dawson was a gallant youth,
One tender maid she lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damsel came, And faultless was her beauteous form, And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the faithful youth astray
Their colours and their sash he wore,
How pale was then his true-love's cheek, When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale, nor yet so chill appear.
With fault'ring voice she weeping said,
"Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
"The gracious prince that gives him life Would crown a never-dying flame, And every tender babe I bore
Should learn to lisp the giver's name.
"But tho', dear youth! thou should'st be dragg'd To yonder ignominious tree,
Thou shalt not want a faithful friend
O then her mourning coach was call'd,
She had not lov'd her fav'rite more.
She follow'd him, prepar'd to view
Distorted was that blooming face,
Which she had fondly lov'd so long: And stifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praise had sweetly sung:
And sever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd: