He was ply'd by a damfel' so lovely and charming,

That the fmil'd, and fo ftraightway in love he did fall.

And would this young damfel but banish his forrow,

He'd wed her to-night, before it was morrow: And how should this waterman ever know care, When he's marry'd, and never in want of a fare?

SONG 30.

Sung in the Duenna. HADI a heart for falfhood fram'd, I ne'er could injure you:

For tho' your tongue no promife claim'd, Your charms would make me true. To you no foul fhall bear deceit,

No ftranger offer wrong: But friends in all the ag'd you'll meet, And lovers in the young.

But when they learn that you have bleft
Another with your heart,

They'll bid afpiring paffion reft,
And act a brother's part.

Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to fuffer wrong:

For friends in all the ag'd you'll meet,
And brothers in the young.

SONG 31.
Written by Dr. SMOLLET.

Sung at VAUXHALL.
THY fatal fhafts unerring move;

I bow before thine aitar, love!
I feel thy foft, refiftless flame,
Glide fwift thro' all my vital frame(a/

For while I gaze my bofom glows,
My blood, in tides impetuous flows;
Hope, fear, and joy. alternate roll,
And floods of transports whelm my foul,
My fault'ring tongue attempts, in vain,
In foothing murmurs to complain;
My tongue fome fecret magic ties,
My murmurs fink in broken fighs.
Condemn'd to nurfe eternal care,
And ever drop the filent tear;
Unheard I mourn, unknown I figh,
Unfriended live, unpity'd die!

(a) su deudge's seneviève.

SONG 32.

THE INCURIOUS.

GIVE me but a wife, I expect not to find Each virtue and grace in one female combin'd.

No goddess for me; 'tis a woman I prize, And he that fecks more is more curious than wife.

MY fond fhepherds of late were fo bleft,
Their fair nymphs were fo happy and gay
That each night they went fafélv to reft,
And they merrily fung thro' the day ;
But, ah! what a fcene muft appear?

Muft the fweet rural paftimes be o'er?
Shall the tabor no mere ilrike the ear?

Shall the dance on the green be no more? Muft the flocks from their paftures be led?

Muft the herds go wild ftraying abroad? Shall the looms be all stopp'd in each fled,

And the hips be all moor'd in each road? Muft the arts be all scatter'd around,

And fhall commerce grow fick of the tide? Must religion expire on the ground, And shall virtue fink down by her fide?

Who delight in the joys of the field; Mankind, tho' they blame, are all eager as you,

And no one the conteft will yield.

His lordship, his worship, his honour, his grace, A hunting continually go;

All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chafe
Hark forward, huzza, tally ho.

The lawyer will rife with the first of the morn,
To hunt for a mortgage or deed;
The husband gets up, at the found of the horn,
And rides to the Commons full sp-co;

The patriot is thrown in pursuit of his game;
The poet, too, often lays low,
Who, mounted on Pegafus, flies after fame,
With hark forward, huzza, tally ho,

While, fearless, o'er hills and o'er woodlands wę sweep,

Tho' prudes on our paftime may frown, How oft do they decency's bounds over-leap, And the fences of virtue break down, Thus, public or private, for penfion, for place, For amufement, for paffion, for fhew, All ranks and degrees are engag'd in the chace, With hark forward, huzza, tally ho.

O! clear him, then, from this offence;
Thy love, thy duty prove;

Reffore him with that innocente
Which firft infpir'd my love.

SONG 37.

Sung in the Way to Keep Him. Written by DAVID GARRICK, Efq. YE fair marry'd dames, who fo often deplore, That a lover once bleft, is a lover no more; Attend to my counsel, nor blush to be taught, That prudence must cherish what beauty has caught.

The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of

your eye,

Your rofes and filies may make the men figh;
But rofes and lilies, and fighs pafs away,
And paffion will die as your beauties decay.
Ufe the man that you wed like your fav'rite
guittar;

Tho' there's mufic in both, they are both apt to jar!

How tuneful and foft from a delicate touch, Not handled too roughly, nor play'd" on too much!

The sparrow and linnet will feed from your hand,

Grow tame by your kindness, and come at command:

Exert with your husband the fame happy skill; For hearts, like your birds, may be tam'd to your will.

Be gay and good-humour'd,complying and kinda Turn the chief of your care from your face to

your mind;

'Tis there that a wife may her conqueft improve, And Hymen hall rivet the fettes of love.

Sung in Mother Shipton.

TO heal the smart a bee had made Upon my Chloe's face,

fee;

On others the fmiles, but the frowns upon me Then teach me, bright Venus, perfuation's foit art,

Or aid me, by reafon, to ranfom my heart! To crown my defire, or to banish my pain, Give love to the nymph, or give cafe to the fwain.

A MARTIAL SONG.

HOW ftands the glass around?

For fhame, ye take no care, my boys;
How ftands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound.
The trumpets found,

The colours they are flying, boys,
To fight, kill, or wound;
May we fill be found,

Content with our hard fate, my boys,
On the cold ground.

Why, foldiers, why,

Shou'd we be melancholy, boys?
Why, foldiers, why,

Whole bus'nefs 'tis to die?
What, fighing, fie!

Drown fear, drink or, be jolly, boys,
'Tis he, you, or L!
Cold, hot, wet, or dry,

We're always bound to follow, boys,
And feorn to fly.

"Tis but in vain,

I mean not to upbraid ye, boys;

And bade me kifs the place.

Pleas'd, I obey'd, and from the wound

Imbib'd both fweet and smart; The honey on my lips I found, The fting within my heart.

SONG 42.

VILLAGE COURTSHIP; A PASTORAL GLEZ. Sung at VAUXHALĘ,

HOW harmless and sweet are the joys of the plain,

When, quitting the village, each nymph and her fwain

The piper's loud summons obey; While fhines the bright moon, radiant queen of the night,

And filv'ring the meadows, looks down with delight,

To ke jolly mortals fo gay!

AURELIA.

Come, Julia, add one to the throng That trip it the valley along:

The found of our feet,

Pleas'd echo fhall heat,

And mimic each close of our fong.

DAMON,

Aurelia, my charmer, away!
For once turn the night into day;
The joys of the wake,
Ak, cyder, and cake,
Forbid any longer delay.

MOPSUS.

Bold youth, your addresses decline;
The choice of these damfels refign:

Tho' grey are my locks,
The herds and the flocks
That graze round the village are mine.

DAMON.

Permit me to afk, as a friend,
To which of thefe girls you pretend?
Your plea fhould be try'd,

The fair-one decide,

And conteft in union shall end,

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE. WHEN forc'd from dear Hebe to go,

What anguish I felt at my heart! And I thought-but it might not be soShe was forry to fee me depart. She caft fuch a languishing view,

My path i could fcarcely difcern; And to tweetly the bade me adieu,

I thought fhe had bade me return.
Methinks he might like to retire
To the grove I had labour'd to rear;
For whatever I heard her admire,

I hated, and planted it there.
Her voice fuch a pleature conveys,
So much 1 her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever the faye,
I'm fure ftill to love her the more.

And now, ere I hate to the phin,

Come, fhepherds, and tell of her ways. I could lay down my life for the twain

Who would fing me a fing in her praife. While he fings may the maids of the town

Come flocking, and liften the while;

Nor on him let Hebe once frown;
Tho' I cannot allow her to fmile.
To fee when my charmer goes by,

Some hermit peeps out of his cell;
How he thinks of his youth with a figh!
How fondly he wishes her well!
On him the may fmile if the please,
It will warm the cool bofom of age-
Yet ceafe, gentle Hebe, O ceafe,
Such foftnefs will ruin the fage.

I've ftole from no flow'rets that grow, To deck the dear charms I approve ; For what can a bloffom beftow,

So fweet, fo delightful as love! I fing in a rustical way,

A fhepherd, and one of the throng; Yet Hebe approves of my lay: Go, poets, and envy my fong.

AS bringing home, the other day,

Two linnets I had ta'en,

The little warblers feem'd to pray
For liberty again :

Unheedful of their plaintive notes,

I fung across the mead;

In vain they tun'd their pleafing throats, And flutter'd to be freed:

As paffing thro' the tufted grove,

I

Near which my cottage ftood, thought I faw the queen of love,

When Clora's charms I view'd; I look'd, I gaz'd, I prefs'd her ftay, To hear my tender tale;

But all in vain-fhe fled away,

Nor could my fighs prevail.

Scon, thro' the wound which love had made,
Came pity to my breast;
And thus as compaffion bade)

The feather'd pair addrefs'd;
Ye little warblers, chearful be,
Remember not ye flew
For I, who thought myfelf fo free,
Am far more caught than you,

SONG 46.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

To make the most of flecting time, Shou'd be our great endeavour; For love we both are in our prime,

The time is now or never.

A thousand charms around you play;
No girl more bright or clever ;
Then let us both agree to-day,
To-morrow will be never.

I ne'er fall be a better man,

I burn with love's high fever; Pray now be kind, I know you can, You must not answer never.

While you, thus, Chloe, turn afide,

You fruftrate my endeavour;

That face will fade, come down that pride,
Your time is now or never.

Te for yourself or me too late,
Say now, you're mine for ever;
I may be fnatch'd by care or fate,
My time is now or never.

SONG 47.

Sung at RANELAGH, after the Regatta.

YE lords, and ye ladies, who form this gay throng,

Be filent a moment, attend to my fong;
And while you fufpend your fantastical round,
Come blefs your sweet ftars, that you're none
of you drown'd.

Derry down, down; down, derry down.. As you've long been detain'd with daughters and fpoufes,

From your parks, and your lawns, and your fine country houfes;

Ere for fummer's dull feafon you bid us adieu,
We prefent you a feaft, and a novelty too.
Enough of feftinos, champetres enough,
Bal-parés, and frescos, and fuch worn-out ftuff;
But how to amufe ye! aye, there was the
question;

A Regatta was thought of, oh! lucky fuggeftion.

From the lagunes of Venice we've ftolen the hint,

And hope you'll acknowledge there's fome merit in't;

Nay, we truft you'll pronounce it cool, useful, and hearty,

As old father Thames is made one of the party,

For fay, fhould Britannia ungratefully treat The friend of her commerce, the nurse of her fleet?

Shall he who with toil wafts your treasures to fhore,

In her hours of amufement be thought of no more ?

Array'd in his best, in his holiday clothes,
To-night the gay Thames his affiftance bestows;
And, as ufual to render the fhew more compleat,
We have ranfack'd the wardrobe of Tavistock
Street...

We've friends in the court, and we've friends in the city;

No doubt, then, our plan is both useful and pretty;

Since the fix clubs have join'd to defray all the charges,

And the lord-mayor and aldermen lent us their barges.

Did ye mind how each candidate tugg'd at the oar?

How the managers ftorm'd, how the conftables (wore?

Shall ye ever forget how the mob was delighted, When the boats all run foul, and the ladies were frighted?

But the races are o'er, the proceffion is clos'd, The landing effected, the clamour compos'd; The fare that's before ye, we hope you'll agree, Is better than coffee, rolls, butter, and tea. " But ere ye return, and your faces vermilion With twifting allem and, and frifking cotillion, Thus with crotchet and ballad we greet every guest,

And welcome you all to our otter-like feaft.

We've ftrove to amufe you by water and land, Once Torre, to pleafe ye, had fire at command; To charm ye fhould be all the elements care, So next time we'll fix on a plan in the air.

SONG 48.

Written by Mr. CONGREVE.
Sung at VAUXHALL.

What joy does conqueft yield,

When returning from the field? Shining in his glitt'ring arms,

How the god-like warrior charms! Laurel-wreaths his head furrounding, Banners waving in the wind; Fame her golden trumpet founding, Ev'ry voice in concert join'd.

SONG 49.

Sung in the Oratorio of Sufanna. ASK if yon damask rose is sweet,

That fcents the ambient air; Then afk each fhepherd that you meet, If dear Sufanna's fair.

Say, will the vulture quit his prey,

And warble thro' the grove?
Bid wanton linnets quit the fpray,
Then doubt thy shepherd's love.
The fpoils of war let heroes fhare,
Let pride in fplendour shine;
Ye bards, unenvy'd, laurels wear,
Be fair Sufanna mine.

SONG 50.

HOPE A PASTORAL.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE.
MY banks are all furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to fleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep
I feldom have met with a lofs,

Such health do my mountains bestow;
My fountains are border'd with mofs,
Where the hare-bells and violets blow,
I've found out a gift for my fair;
I've found where the wood-pigeons breed,
C.