For the foil here was good, and whenever they | The palace deckt with regal state; fow'd It was certain to propagate feed. The vain parade of all the great; The title, penfion, or the gown, The ftar, the garter, or the crown, Thus favour'd, we'll spurn at the fcroyls of Without you as a conftant guest, RURAL PROSPECT. Written by Mr. LEMOINE. NOW gilded groves, with verdure clad, Reflect bright Phoebus' golden beams, While his celeftial glories flame Down the translucent filver ftreams. Lo! as Aurora onward moves, His fleecy flocks the fhepherd-fwain Drives from their folds in jovial glee, And whitens all the verdant plain. In yonder gay, enamel'd mead, The ftarling plumes his golden wings, Then tow'ring up the azure height, He mounts fublime, and foaring fings. Nymph of the wave, sweet Naïad hear, While thy clear water's bank along, With careless fteps I pleafing tray, And warble forth my youthful fong. Here could I ever, ever rove, And quit the world's contentious fcene; What joy, with innocence and truth, To wrap me in your charming green! But fate and fortune, adverfe, call, And fnatch me to the bufy throng; Adieu, then! rural fweets, adieu! And cease, thou dear, deluding fong. SONG 446. CONTENTMENT. Written by Mr. MAVOR. SEQUESTER'D far from publick life, O, fweet Contentment, let me live with thee. Thine are the joys that never fail; Golconda's gems, and flaming mines, Leave their poffeffors joyless and unbleft. What's thy delight, Contentment, fay, Where poverty obtains it's still unenvy'd lot? 'Tis here I fee thy fplendor's beam; Such fweets as fceptr'd monarchs seldor know. SONG 447. Sung in the Prodigal Son. GREAT God, while fuppliant thus we bend, O may our fire's remaining day His eve ferenely fair! But if difeafe, with venom'd dart, And fmooth the bed of death. CHORUS. What dear delight the duties bring, SONG 448. A TRIP O'ER THE GREEN; A PASTORAL. ONE day, o'er the green as I tript it along, He called me back to fit by him awhile, Then ftraight he came to me, and proffer'd a kits, Yet I vow in my heart I was pleafed at this, Though he made me to flutter and figh. ! He told me he lov'd me, and fomething befide, Which I must not repeat, by the bye, For fear the young thepherd my conduct should chide, And make me for ever to figh. He promis'd to take me next week to the fair, And if that the fwain should make me his wife, Then, thus the command is, to rank and to file, With looks fo important, wou'd make a dog fmile. AIR. Make ready, my boys, And well ram your powder; And found much the louder. The captain then holding his cane up on high, Should burn his fine wig, kept on purpose for training: Then their drums and their musquets at once cease to rattle, And thus is concluded the bloodilefs battle, AIR. My lads, you've done well; And are heroes in wars and alarms; Pray, go home to your wives, Thofe who've not lost their lives, And revel and bafk in their arms. SONG 450. Sung in the Sorcerer. CAST, my love, thine eyes around, All in honour of the May: Like the Sparrow and the dove, Liften to the voice of love. FLORELLA. Damon, thou haft found me long Not the verdure of the grove; FLORELLA. Not the water's gentle fall, By the bank with poplars crown'd, SONG 452. Written by Mr. MAVOR. BEFORE the morn's empurpling light My restless thoughts to Nancy rove, When from the chambers of the Ea3, The flow'ry vefture of the fields, The fragrant rofe's crimfen dyes, Ye great, ambitious, and ye vain, All other pleasures I refign, SONG 453. SUMMER. Written by Mr. LEMOINE. ALL nature looks gay, While birds on each (pray Re-echo fweet harmony round; The lily and rofe Their beauties difclose, The meadows look green, Each garden's enraptur'd with joy; Yield pleasures that never can cloy. The fnowy-fleec'd lambs, And tho' the fpring's filed, From latitude-nought, to the pole. And quicker by half, I will venture to fay, Our parliament might have fulfill'd their intent, If, inflead of commiffioners, tedious and dear, They had fent out a cargo of Dorchester-beer. Then let each worthy Briton, who wishes for peace With America's fons, fill his glafs to the brim, And drink-May our civil commotions foon ceafe, And war with French perfidy inftant begin! May our friends never want, nor our foes e'er come near, The pride of Old England, good Dorchesterbeer! Written by Mr. MAVOR. GREAT Love! I own thy pow'r supreme, My mind has felt the dart; No more the tranfitory flame Plays lambent round my heart. Bright Nancy's charms the bofom fire, To light an ardent love. Then wonder not to hear me vow That I can change no more; Inftructs the bufy bee To range the produce of the plain, Till lighting on the bloomy rofe, SONG 457. Sung at VAUXHALL. WHEN laft we parted on the plain, Fond Damon feem'd full lothe to go; He kifs'd, and faid, That foon again He'd come, and wou'd not leave me fo; For that, fays he, the time is near, And then, my love, I do defign, It is the best day in the year, To come and be your Valentine. I wish'd the tedious hours to fly, And long'd the look'd-for day to fee; And as the time then grew fo nigh, How bleft, thought I, will Nancy be! The morning came, and at my door I heard a noife, that faid, Incline For once, dear girl, if never more, To rife and be my Valentine. A thousand fears disturb'd my mind, 'Twas Thyrfis there, in Damon's fread! I thought my youth was quite unkind, Nor knew what fhou'd be done or faid. I hop'd it cou'd not be a fin; In fpite to Damon, now not mine, I let the kinder Thyrfis in, And was that shepherd's Valentine. Nor what I did I now repent, For fickle Damon, foon as light, To Lucy on that morning went, Nor has been fince from out her fight; I blefs the time, that once was pain, SONG 458. Sung at RANELAGH. THE eye that beams with lambent light, The gods adorn the fair. Hence each poetic genius fings; Sweet beauty tunes th' embofom'd ftrings, But fhall not charms fo honour'd laft? Buds? Then, ah, how vain is female pride! No, the reveres the milder way, Do thou, my fair-one, in whofe mind Then, when the charms of youth are o'er, SONG 459. IF 'tis joy to wound a lover, Oh, how pleafing 'tis to please! Gently treating thofe that yield. SONG 460. Written by a YOUNG GENTLEMAN, late of Westminfter-School. FOR thee, whofe warm tendernets loves At the found of my pleasures to glow; Or, when forrow's maild influence moves, Can melt in the foftness of woe; Where the horrors of winter may spring, As o'er mountains we tremble along, Shall friendship her offering bring, And chear the rude path with her fong! How fweet the reflections of peace, To the feats which my Shenstone has plann'd, A flow'r ne'er bloom'd from his hand, But fhould fortune hence fnatch me away, Unhurt, 'mid the defart I'll smile, Nor the bluth of repining betray; Here fummers' firft beauties combine; Or fmile from the boughs of our vine: While thou, for whofe pleasure I raise Each fweet which retirement can give, |