Then, again, when I perufe,
O'er my tea, the morning news;
Difmal tales of plunder'd houfes,
Wanton wives, and cuckold (poufes;
When I read of money lent,
At fixteen and a half per cent,
I cry

But if, ere the muffin's gone,
Simp'ring enters honeft John;
"Sir, Mifs Lucy's at the door,
"Waiting in a chaife and four:"
Inftant vanish all my cares,
Swift I fcamper down the stairs,
And laugh-

So may this indulgent throng,
Who now, fmiling, grace my fong,
Never more cry, Oh! oh! oh!
But join with me in, Ha! ha ha!

SONG 9.

Sung in the Beggar's Opera.

IF you at an office folicit your due,

And would not have matters neglected,

You must quicken the clerk with the perquifite, too,

To do what his duty directed.

Or would you the frowns of a lady prevent,
She, too, has this palpable failing,
The perquifite foftens her into confent;
That reafon with all is prevailing.

SONG 10.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.
Written by Mr. WOTY.

YE fwains that infult o'er my woe,
And make me the jeft of the green,
What I fuffer ye flenderly know,

My Phillis ye never have feen.
O! he's lovely as thought can exprefs,
As gentle and mild as the dove:
I faw her-and who could do lefs-
I faw, and I could not but love!

I ne'er told her the anguish I bear,

She might think me prefumptuous and bold; Ah! what need of words to declare

What my eyes muft fo often have told !
How shall I my love recommend!

I may rob all her heart of it's ease;
And, fure, I must dread to offend,
Whofe ftudy is only to please.
They tell me I'm penfive and grave,
Not, as formerly, chearful and free;
All pleafures contented I wave,

That fpring not, my Phillis, from thee.
Nor riches nor grandeur I mind,

Nor titles to flatter my pride;
To me, if the nymph is unkind,

All the world's a defart befide.
At each scene of the well-fabled woe,
Which forrow fo forcibly speaks,

I mark'd the foft current o'erflow,

And the tear gently fteal down her cheeks. I mark'd it! and, truft me, ye fair,

It pleas'd me fuch foftnefs to fee! Can the melt at a fancy'd defpair,

And not have compaffion for me? Her voice founda fo filverly fweet,

When the tells me there's hope for her fwain, My life I'd lay down at her feet But to hear the dear accents again. In expreffion let others excel, My love is a ftranger to art: Tho', may be, I fpeak not fo well, Yet, truft me, I fpeak from the heart. May thy days to thy wishes be bleft! May't thou never have caufe to repine! Or, if forrows thy bofom moleft,

O tell them, and they fhall be mine. Will my fair-one my fervice deny ?

My prefumption will Phillis forgive? Contented for her I could die,

With whom 'twould be heaven to live.

A favourite Song in Tamerlane.

TO thee, O! gentle sleep, alone,

Is owing all our peace;

By thee our joys are heighten'd shewn,
By thee our forrows cease.

The nymph, whofe hand by fraud or force
Some tyrant has poffefs'd,

By thee obtaining a divorce,

In her own choice is blefs'd.

Oh! ftay, Arpafia bids thee ftay}
The fadly weeping fair
Conjures thee not to lofe, in day,
The object of her care.

To grafp whofe pleafing form fhe fought;
That motion chas'd her fleep:
Thus by ourfeives are oftneft wrought
The griefs for which we weep.

THE STATE OF A LOVER.

HOW happy a lover's life paffes,

When beauty returns figh for figh!
He looks upon all men as affes,
Who have not fome girl in their eye.
With heart full as light as a feather,

He trips to the terras or parks;
Where fwains croud impatient together,
And maidens look out for their sparks.

What fweet palpitation arifes,

When Chloe appears full in view! Her fmiles at more value he prizes, Than mifers the mines of Peru.

Tho' fwift-winged time, as they're walking, Soon parts them, alas! by his flight;

By reflection he still hears her talking,
And abfent he keeps her in fight.
Whenever abroad he regalès him,

And Bacchus calls out for his lafs; His love for his Chloe ne'er fails him, Her name gives a zeft to his glafs. No other amusements he prizes,

Than those that from Chloe arife; She's firft in his thoughts when he rifes, And laft when he clofes his eyes. Then let not ambition diftrefs us,

Or fortune's fantastical chace; Love only with Chloe can blefs us, And give all we want to embrace.

SONG 13.
Written by G. A. STEVENS,

Sung at VAUXHALL. CONTENTED I am, and contented I'll bez For what can this world more afford, Than a girl that will fociably fit on my kuce, And a cellar that's plenteously ftor'd?

See! my vault door is open, descend ev'ry gueft,

Tap the cafk, for the wine we will try ; 'Tis as fweet as the lips of your love to your taste, And as bright as her cheeks to your eye.

In a piece of flit-hoop I my candle have stuck,
"Twill light us each bottle to hand;
The foot of my glafs for the purpose I've broke,
For I hate that a bumper should stand.

Sound that pipe-tis in tune, and the binns are well fill'd,

View that heap of Champaigne in the rear i Thofe bottles are Burgundy fee how they're pil'd, Like artillery, tier over fier,

My cellar's my camp, and my foldiers my flasks,
All gloriously rang'd in review;
When I caft my eyes round, I confider my casks
As kingdoms I've got to fubdue.

'Tis my will, when I die, not a tear shall be shed
No bic jacet be grav'd on my ftone;
But pour on my coffin a bottle of red,"
And say that my drinking is done.

SONG 14.

Sung in the Capricious Lovers. FOR various purpose ferves the fan 3

As thus a decent blind, Between the sticks to peep at man,

Nor yet betray your mind.

Each action has a meaning plain,
Refeniment's in the inap;
A flirt expreffes ftrong difdain,

Confent a gentlê tap.

All paffions will the fan difclofe,
All modes of female ait;

And to advantage fweetly fhews,

The hand, if not the heart. 'Tis folly's fceptre, first design'd By love's capricious boy, Who knows how lightly all mankind Are govern'd by a toy.

O

SONG 15.

Sung at VAUXHALL.
Give me that focial delight

Which none but true lovers receive, When Luna bedecks the ftill night,

And glances her fmiles on the eve: When to the fair meadows we go,

Where peace and contentment retire Or down the smooth current we row,

In time with the flutes and the lyre. By nature thefe pictures are drawn:

How fweet is each landscape difpos'd! The profpect extends to the lawn,

Or by the tali beeches is clos'd. Come, Strephon, attend to the scene:

The clouds are all vanish'd above;

The objects around are ferene,

As modell'd to mufic and love.

vain honeft Corydon strove to depart, or love held him fast to the place.

Leafe, cease, pretty birds, what a chirping you keep,

I think you too loud on the fpray; Don't you fee, foolish lark, that the charmer's afleep,

You'll wake her as fure as 'tis day. How dare that fond butterfly touch the sweet maid!

Mer cheeks he mistakes for the rose : I'd put him to death, if I was not afraid.

My boldness would break her repofe. Then Phillis look'd up with a languishing fmile,

Kind fhepherd, faid she, you mistake; I laid myfelt down for to rest me awhile, But trust me I was not asleep.

The shepherd took courage, advanc'd with a

bow,

He plac'd himself down by her fide; And manag'd the matter, I cannot tell how, But yesterday made her his bride.

SONG 18

Sung at VAUXHALL. WHERE fhall Celia fly for shelter? In what fecret grove or cave? Sighs and fonnets fent to melt her,

From the young, the gay, the brave. Tho' with prudith airs the ftarch her,

Still the longs, and fill the burns: Cupid fhoots like Hymen's archer,

Wherefoe'er the damfel turns. Virtue, youth, good-fenfe, and beauty, (If difcretion guide us not) Sometimes are the ruffian's booty,

Sometimes are the booby's lot; Now they're purchas'd by the traders

Now commanded by the peer;. Now fome fubtle, nean invader, Wins the heart, or gains the ear.

Q diferetion! thou'rt a jewel,

Or our grand-mamas mistake, Stinting flame by bating fewel,

Always careful and awake.

Would you keep your pearls from tramplers,

Weigh the licence, weigh the banus; Mark my fong upon your famplers,

Wear it on your knots and fans.

SONG 19.

Sung in the Padlock.

SAY, little foolish flutt'ring thing, Whither, ah! whither would you wing Your airy flight?

Stay here and fing,

Your mistress to delight. No, no, no,

Sweet Robin, you shall not go! Where you wanton, could you be Half fo happy as with me ?

SONG 200

Sung in High Life below Stairs.

COME here, fellow-fervants, and liften to

me,

I'll fhew you how thofe of fuperior degree, Are only dependents, no better than we, Are only dependents, &c.

Both high and low in this do agree, 'Tis here, fellow-fervant, and there, fellowfervant, and all in a livery.

'Tis here, fellow-fervant, &c.

See yonder fine spark in embroidery dreft,
Who bows to the great, and if they smile, is
Bleft;

What is he, i'faith, but a fervant at best?

Both high, &c.

Nature made all alike, no diftinction she craves So we laugh at the great world, it's fools and it's knaves;

For we are all fervants, but they are all flaves Both high, &c.

The fat fhining glutton looks up to his shelf, The wrinkled lean mifer bows down to his pelf And the curl-pated beau is a flave to himself. Both high, &c.

The gay sparkling belle, who the whole town alarms,

And with eyes, lips and neck, fets the fmarts all in arms,

Is a vaffal herself, a mere drudge to her charms. Both high, &c.

Then we'll drink like our betters, and laugh,

A fea-faring fpark if the maids can affect,

Bid the fimpering gypfies look to't ; Sound bottoms they'll find us in ev'ry refpe&, And our pockets well laden to boot. The landfmen mayhap, in the way of difcourfe, Have more art to perfuade, and the like; But 'ware thofe falfe colours-for better for worfe,

Is the bargain we're willing to Arike.

Now long live the king! may he profperous reign,

Of no power, no faction, afraid'; May Britain's proud flag ftill exult o'er the main, At all points of the compafs difplay'd! No quickfands endanger, no forms overwhelm, Steady, fteady, and safe may she fail ; No ignorant pilots e'er fit at her helm, Or her anchor of liberty fail !

SONG 22.

THE NOD, WINK, AND SMILE,

Sung at VAUXHALL.

LET fufty old grey-beards of apathy boaft,
And Venus and Bacchus revile;

In spite of their books, they are slaves to fume toaft,

The dupes of a nod, wink, or smile.

Some fnug fober citizens here may repair,
Without an idea of guile;

But what with the mufic, and what with the fair,

They follow the pod, wink, and smile. Let men boaft of titles, of honours, tenowa ; The females of this happy ifte, Can vanquish the victors, nay kill with a frown, Or fave, by a nod, wink, or fmite. Thefe gardens of pleasure the beauties approve, Who the dulleft of moments beguile; Here Cupid unfurls the white ftandard of love, And commands with a nod, wink, and (mile.

SONG 23.

BLYTHE JOCKEY; A SCOTCH BALLAD.
Sung at VAUXHALL.

BLYTHE Jockey, young and gay,
Is all my heart's delight;

He's all my talk by day,

And all my dreams by night.

If from the lad I be,

Tis winter then with mes
But when he tarries here,
'Tis fummer all the year.

When I and Jockey met

Firft on the flow'ry dale, Right Sweetly he me tret,

And love was all his tale.

You are the lafs, faid he,
That ftaw my heart frae me;

O cafe me of my pain,

And never fhew difdais.

I'm glad when Jockey comes,

Sad when he gangs away;
'Tis night when Jockey glooms,
But when he fmiles 'tis day.
Well can my Jockey kyth

His love and courtefie;
He made my heart full blythe,
When he first spake to me.
His fuit ill deny'd,
He kifs'd and I comply'd;
Sae Jockey promis'd me,
That he would faithful be.
When our eyes meet 1 pant,
I colour, figh, and faint ;
What lafs that would be kind,
Can better speak her mind ?

THE ABSENT LOVER.

WHILE Celia's remote from my fight,
In vain to be cheatful I try;

Nor the verdure of fpring can delight,
Or the want of her prefence fupply.
No flow'r that the landscape arrays,

With the bloom of her cheeks can compare; Nor the blushes Aurora displays

Can equal the looks of my fair.
The bird that fo fweetly complains,
Each night to the listening grove,
Sings not in fuch foft melting strains
As are thofe of the virgin I love!
The charms that embellish her mind,
What numbers wou'd ferve to exprefs?
Whofe converfe, so fweet, so refin'd,

Can foften the deepest distress !
Each other bright fair I'd refign,

With whatever the gay world can give,
Would fortune but make Celia mine,
With enough independent to live.
No monarch would, then, be more bleft;
Nor wou'd I, a throne to enjoy,
Exchange the dear nymph I poffefs'd,
Whofe love ev'ry with cou'd fupply.
Then fay, cruel fate! why fo long

I am doom'd still to languish in vain ?
You either muft foften my fong,
Or foon I must die with my pain.

SONG 25.

Sung at RANELAGH,

NOT on beauty's tranfient pleasure,
Which no real joys impart
Nor on heaps of fordid treature,
Did I fix my youthful heart.

'Twas not Chloe's perfect feature
Did the fickle wand'rer bind

Not her form, the beast of nature, 'Twas alone her fpotlefs mind. Not on beauty's, &c,

Take, ye fwains, the real bleffing, That will joys for lifeinfure; The virtuous mind alone poffeffing, Will your lasting blifs fecure, Not on beauty's, &c. .

SONG 26.

Sung in the Padlock.

DEAR heart! what a terrible life am I led ? A dog has a better, that's shelter'd and fed; Night and day 'tis the same,

My pain is dere game ;,

Me wish to de Lord me was dead.

Whate'er's to be done,

Poor black must run;
Mungo here, Mungo dere,
Mungo every where.

Above, or below,
Sirrah, come, firrah, go
Do fo, and do fo.

Oh ! Oh !

Me wish to de Lord me was dead.

SONG 27.

Written by Mr. GAY.

RECITATIVE.

TWAS when the feas were roaring, With hollow blafts of wind,

A darpfellay deploring,

All on a rock reclin'd! Wide o'er the foaming billo.vs

She caft a wistful look;

Her head was crown'd with.willows, That trembled o'er the brook,

AIR.

Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days;
Why did thou, vent'rous lover,
Why did thou trust the feas?
Ceife, ceafe, thou troubled ocean,
And let my lover teît;
Ah! what's thy troubled motion,
To that within my breast?
The merchant robb'd of pleasure,
Views tempefte with d feair:
But what's the lofs of treasure

To loofing of my dear?
Should you fome coast be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you fo. How can they fay that nature, Has nothing made in vain y Why, then, beneath the water, Do hideous rocks remain ?