I know this beauty false and vain, Thy gentle fmiles no more can please, The torments I endure; Think what that wounded breaft muft feel Oft fhall I curfe my iron chain, But paffion's wild, impetuous fea, 'Twere vain to fruggle more: Thus the poor failor flumbering lies, While fwelling tides around him rife, And push his bark from shore. 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; Till, bolder grown, fo clofe he prefs'd, WHEN once I with Phillida ftray'd, Her vows have prov'd empty and vain; 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, Then I eagerly clafp'd her quite close to my breaft, And kifs'd her, and kiss'd her again; At length, by entreaties, by kiffes, and vows, 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. To wheedle and cajole is their plan : Love fhall nerve your bold arm, love fhall prof. My heart cannot change like the weather; 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, Let the parfon, then, fplice us together. SONG 606. SAY, mighty love, and teach my fong, To foften all their cares? Not the wild herd of nymphs and fwains, As cuftom leads the way: Not fordid fouls of earthly mould, Not the mad tribe that hell infpires The purer blifs destroy: Nor the dull pairs whofe marble forms Can mingle hearts and Hands: Logs of green wood, that quench the coals, With offers for their bands. Or none befides the bafs. The rugged and the keen: For love abhors the fight: Two kindeft fouls alone must meet, SONG 607. NO nymph that trips the verdant plains She wins the hearts of all the fwains, The beams of Sol delight and clear, While fummer featons roll; When from the exft the morning ray Her prefence bids the god of day Fresh beauties deck the painted ground, The playful lambkins skip around, The lark but ftrains his livid throat, And mimicks, while he fwells his note, And ev'ry flow'ret feems to fay, The am'rous youths her charms proclaim Her beauty and unfpotted fame The ftream meandring thro' the mead, And ev'ry voice, and ev'ry reed, Is tun'd to Sally's praife. No more fhall blithfome lafs or fwain No more fhall gufh the purling rill, 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; With fuch a companion to tend a few sheep, The fountain that wont to run fweetly along, 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, My dog I was ever well pleased to see, 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? In all their sports upon the plain, And him alone approve; Still, fill too fhort appears his stay, Too faft for my fond fove." Does any fpeak in Damon's praife, But is he blam'd, although in jeft, 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, 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, Each fmile the gives protects his name, 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, Bare-headed on the green, Her arms, white, round, and smooth, Without the help of art, Like flow'rs which grace the wild, |