I know this beauty false and vain,
I know the triumphs in my pain,
Yet ftill I feel I love.

Thy gentle fmiles no more can please,
Nor can thy fofteft friendship ease

The torments I endure;

Think what that wounded breaft muft feel
Which truth and kindness cannot heal,
Nor e'en thy pity cure.

Oft fhall I curfe my iron chain,
And with again thy milder reign
With long and vain regret ;
All that I can, to thee I give,
And could I ftill to reafon live
I were thy captive yet.

But paffion's wild, impetuous fea,
Hurries me far from peace and thee,

'Twere vain to fruggle more: Thus the poor failor flumbering lies, While fwelling tides around him rife,

And push his bark from shore.
In vain he spreads his helpless arms,
His pitying friends with fond alarms
In vain deplore his state;
Still far and farther from the coaft,
On the high furge his bark is toft,
And foundering yields to fate.

SONG 599. Sung at VAUXHALL. ROUSE Britain's warlike throng, Sound the trumpet, ftrike the lyre, Let martial note and fong

Martial order re-Infpire. Peace, to Britain ever dear,

All her charms awhile forgoes; Britons will no longer bear

Infuits from difdainful foes. Sound the trumpets! found again! Britain claims the martial train, See bright honour rear it's head, And, while glory leads the band, Awful war, with folemn tread, Stalks majeftic thro' the land.

SONG 600.

Sung at RANELAGH.

TO cafe his heart, and own his flame,

Bithe Jockey to young Jenny came; But, tho' fhe lik'd him paffing weel, She careless turn'd her fpinning-wheel. Her milk-white hand he did extol, And prais'd her fingers long and small: Unufual joy her heart did feel, But fill the turn'd her fpinning-wheel. Then round about her fender waist, He clafp'd his arms, and her embrac'd: To kifs her hand he down did kneel; But yet he turn'd her spinning-wheel.

With gentle voice the bid him rise;
He blefs'd her neck, her lips, and eyess
Her fondness fhe could fearce conceal;
Yet ftill the turn'd her spinning-wheel.

Till, bolder grown, fo clofe he prefs'd,
His wanton thought the quickly guefs'd;
Then push'd him from her rock and reel,
And angry turn'd her spinning-wheel.
At last, when he began to chide,
He fwore he meant her for his bride:
'Twas then her love fhe did reveal,
And flung away her spinning-wheel.

WHEN once I with Phillida ftray'd,
Where rivers run murmuring by,
I heard the foft vows that she made;
What (wain was fo happy as 1?
My breaft was a stranger to care,
For my wealth by her kiffes I told;
I thought myself richer, by far,
Than he that had mountains of gold.
But now I am poor and undone,

Her vows have prov'd empty and vain;
The kiffes I once thought my own,

Are bestow'd on a happier (wain: But ceafe, gentle fhepherd, to deem

Her vows shall be conftant and true; They're as falfe as a Midfummer dream, As fickle as Midfummer dew.

O, Phillis, fo fickle and fair,

Why did you my love then approve? Had you frown'd on my fuit, thro' despair I foon had forgotten to love: You fmil'd, and your fmiles were so fweet, You fpoke, and your words were fo kind, I could not fufpect the deceit,

But gave my loose fails to the wind. When tempefts the ocean deform,

And billows fo mountainous roar, The pilot, fecur'd from the storm,

Ne'er ventures his bark from the fhore ;

As foon as foft breezes arife,

And fmiles the falfe face of the fea,

His heart he too credulous tries,

And, failing, is shipwreck'd like me.

But, Phebe, (I cry'd,) to my fuit lend an ear,
And let me no longer complain.
She reply'd, with a frown, and an afpect fevere,
Young Colin, your labour's in vain.

Then I eagerly clafp'd her quite close to my breaft,

And kifs'd her, and kiss'd her again;
O, Colin, (he cry'd,) if you're rude, I proteft
That your labour thall ftill be in vain.

At length, by entreaties, by kiffes, and vows,
Compaffion the took on my pain;
She now has confented to make me her spouse,
So no longer I labour in vain.

SONG 603.

THE HEROIC FAIR.

AWAY with foft fighs! for our danger alarms! Our country folicits our fmiles to it's aid; Let our beauty infpirit it's vot`ries to arms,

And heroes alone win the hearts of the maid.

Laft month, my dear Colin, with tear-fwimming eyes,

Prefs'd my hand, while he look'd a whole volume of woe;

E'en then (for my heart never wore a disguise) If you love me, faid 1, go and conquer the foe.

Go and rush to the fight, go and conquer the foe; Securing your country's,fecure your own blifs:

Not a kifs will be granted, by black, brown, or fair;

Not an ogle, a figh, or a squeeze. To the married-if they but look glum, or say, No,

Should the monfieur dare blufter or huff, We've determined, nem. con. that their foreheads fhall fhew

A word to the wife is enough.

Thefe punishments we've in terrorem proclaim'd;

But still, should your courage be lacking,. As our dernier refort, this refolve fhall be nam'd,. Which, egad! will foon send you all packing. We'll the breeches affume-'pon my honour 'tis true!

So determine, maids, widows, and wives; Firft we'll march-beat the French -thea march back, and beat you

Aye, and wear 'em the reft of our lives.

SONG 605.

Sung in Buxom Joan.
'TIS for landmen to prate,
Such trifling I hate,

To wheedle and cajole is their plan :
For a licence let's hafte,
We have no time to waste;
'Tis actions that best speak the man.
I'm a rough, honeft tar,
Juft landed from far;

per each blow,

And the ruin of France fhall fecure you a kifs. Go, then! He obey'd, refolv'd not to stay, But prefs'd my lips first; how else could we part?

I figh'd him fuccefs, as the youth went away; For his worth had fecur'd ev'ry with of my heart.

If by my example my fex was infpir'd,

Nonation would dare to provoke British rage; Our fwains with true courage would always be fir'd,

And our fmiles create heroes in every age.

SONG 604.

Written by Mr. WRIGHTEN.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

SOUND the fife-beat the drum-to my ftandard repair,

All ye lads who will conquer or die; At request of my fex, as a captain I'm here, The men's courage and valour to try: 'Tis your king and your country now call for your aid,

And the ladies command you to go; By me they announce it, and you, who're afraid, Or refufe, our vengeance hall know. Then firft to the fingle-thefe things I declare, (So each maiden moft firmly decrees,)

As the needle 'tis true,
And points only to you;

Let the parfon, then, fplice us together.

SONG 606.
Written by Dr. WATTS.

SAY, mighty love, and teach my fong,
To whom thy fweeteft joys belong,
And who the happy pairs;
Whofe yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find bleffings twifted with their bands,

To foften all their cares?

Not the wild herd of nymphs and fwains,
That thoughtless fly into the chains,

As cuftom leads the way:
If there be blifs without defign,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as bleft as they.

Not fordid fouls of earthly mould,
When drawn by kindred charms of gold
To dull embraces move:
So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell infpires
With wanton flames; thofe raging fires

The purer blifs destroy:
On Etna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning drefs the bed,
T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whofe marble forms
None of the melting paffions warms,

Can mingle hearts and Hands:

Logs of green wood, that quench the coals,
Are marry'd just like ftoick fouls,

With offers for their bands.
Not minds of melancholy ftrain,
Still filent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage blefs:
As well may heavenly concerts fpring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,

Or none befides the bafs.
Nor can the foft enchantments hold
Two jarring fouls of angry mould,

The rugged and the keen:
Samfon's young, foxes might as well
In bands of chearful wedlock dwell,
With firebrands ty'd between
Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a favage mind;

For love abhors the fight:
Loose the fierce tyger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rife and forbid delight,

Two kindeft fouls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage' sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentleft birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.

SONG 607.

NO nymph that trips the verdant plains
With Sally can compare;

She wins the hearts of all the fwains,
And rivals all the fair:

The beams of Sol delight and clear,

While fummer featons roll;
But Sally's frailes can all the year
Give pleafure to the foul.

When from the exft the morning ray
Illumes the world below,

Her prefence bids the god of day
With emulation glow:

Fresh beauties deck the painted ground,
Birds fweeter notes prepare;

The playful lambkins skip around,
And hail the fifter fair,

The lark but ftrains his livid throat,
To bid the maid rejoice,

And mimicks, while he fwells his note,
The sweetness of her voice:
The fanning zephyrs round her play,
While Flora fhe'll perfume,

And ev'ry flow'ret feems to fay,
I but for Sally bloom.

The am'rous youths her charms proclaim
From morn to eve their tale;

Her beauty and unfpotted fame
Make vocal ev'ry vale,

The ftream meandring thro' the mead,
Her echo'd name conveys;

And ev'ry voice, and ev'ry reed,

Is tun'd to Sally's praife.

No more fhall blithfome lafs or fwain
To mirthful wake refort,
Nor ev'ry May-morn on the plain
Advance in rural sport;

No more fhall gufh the purling rill,
Nor mufic wake the grove,
Nor flocks look fnow-like on the hill,
When I forget to love.

M

SONG 608.

Written by Dr. BYRON.

time, O ye mufes! was happily spent, When Phebe went with me wherever I went;

Ten thousand foft pleafures I felt in my breaft;
Sure never fond fhepherd like Colin was bleft!
But now the is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a fudden I find!
When things were as fine as could poffibly be;
I thought 'twas the spring, but, alas! it was she.

With fuch a companion to tend a few sheep,
To rife up and play, or to lie down and fleep;
1 was fo good-humour'd, fo chearful and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day.
But now I fo crofs and fo peevish am grown,
So ftrangely uneafy as never was known;
My fair-one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd,
And my heart, I am fure, weighs more than
a pound.

The fountain that wont to run fweetly along,
And dance to foft murmurs the pebbles among,
Thou know'ft, little Cupid, if Phebe was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas mufick to hear:
But now the is abfent, I walk by it's fide,
And fill as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
Muft you be fo chearful, while I go in pain!
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me
complain!

When my lambkins around me would often

times play,

And when Phebe and I were as joyful as they, How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time,

When fpring, love, and beauty, were all in their prime!

But now in their frolicks when by me they país,

I fling at their fleeces an handful of grafs:

Be ftill, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To fee you fo merry, while I am so fad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see,
Come wagging his tail to my fair-one and me
And Phebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog faid,
Come hither, poor fellow; and patted his head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a four look,
Cry, Sirrah! and give him a blow with my crook:
And I'll give him another; for why should not
Tray

Be as dull as his mafter, when Phebe's away?

When walking with Phebe, what fights have I

feen!

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!

What a lovely appearance the trees and the fhade,

The corn-fields and hedges, and ev'ry thing

made!

But fince the has left me, though all are still there,

They none of them now fo delightful appears 'Twas nought but the magick, I find, of her

eyes,

Made fo many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet mufick went with us both all the wood thro',

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grafhopper under our feet: But now he is abfent, tho' ftill they fing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone; Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave ev'ry thing else it's agreeable found.

Rofe, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of it's fweetnefs the bloffoms beguile?

That meadow, thofe daifies, why do they not fmile?

AH! why must words my flame reveal?
Why needs my Damon bid me teli
What all my actions prove?
A blufh whene'er I meet his eye,
Whene'er I hear his name a figh,
Betrays my fecret love.

In all their sports upon the plain,
Mine eyes fill fix'd on him remain,

And him alone approve;
The reft unheeded dance or play,
From all he steals my praife away,
And can he doubt my love?
Whene'er we meet, my looks confess
The joys that all my foul poffefs,
And every care remove :

Still, fill too fhort appears his stay,
The moments fly too faft away,

Too faft for my fond fove."

Does any fpeak in Damon's praife,
So pleas'd am I with all he fays,
I ev'ry word approve;

But is he blam'd, although in jeft,
I feel refentment fire my breast,
Alas! because I love.

But ah! what tertures tear my heart, When I fufpe&t his looks impart

The leaft defire to rove!

I hate the maid that gives me pain,
Yet him to hate I ftrive in vain,

For ah! that hate is love.

Then afk not words, but read mine eyes, Believe my blufhes, truft my fighs,

My paffion thefe will prove; Words oft deceive, and spring from art, The true expreflions of my heart To Damon, must be love.

SONG 611.

SHAKESPEARE'S GARLAND.

LET beauty with the fun arife,
To Shakespeare tribute pay;
With heavenly fmiles and speaking eyes,
Give grace and luftre to the day.

Each fmile the gives protects his name,
What face hall dare to frown?
Not envy's felf can blaft the fame
Which beauty deigns to crown.

SONG 612.

THE LASS OF PEATY'S MILL.

THE lafs of Peaty's mili,

So bonny, blithe, and gay,

In fpight of all my skill,
Hath fole my heart away.
When tedding of the hay

Bare-headed on the green,
Love midft her locks did play,
And wanton'd in her een.

Her arms, white, round, and smooth,
Breafts rifing in their dawn;
To age it would give youth,
To prefs 'em with his hand.
Thro' all my fpirits ran
An extafy of blifs,
When I fuch fweetnefs fand
Wrapt in a balmy kifs,

Without the help of art,

Like flow'rs which grace the wild,
She did her fweets impart,
Whene'er the spoke or fmil'd.
Her looks they were to mild,
Free from affected pride,