She me to love beguil'd,
I wish'd her for my bride.

O had I all that wealth
Hoptoun's high mountains fiil,
Infur'd long life and health,
And pleasures at my will;
I'd promife and fulfil,

That none but bonny fhe,
The lafs of Peaty's mill,

Shou'd share the fame wi' me.

SONG 613.

Written by Mr. PRIOR.

IF wine and mufic have the pow'r
To eafe the fickness of the foul,
Let Phoebus every ftring explore,

And Bacchus fill the fprightly bowl.
Let them their friendly aid employ
To make my Chloe's abfence light,
And feek for pleasure, to destroy

The forrows of this live-long night.

But the to-morrow will return;

Venus, be thou to-morrow great, Thy myrtles ftrew, thy odours burn, And meet thy fav'rite nymph in state. Kind goddess, to no other pow'rs

Let us to-morrow's bieffings own; The darling loves fhall guide the hours, And all the day be thine alone.

SONG 614.

DEAR Chloe, whilft thus, beyond meafure,
You treat me with doubts and difdain;
You rob all your youth of it's pleasure,
And hoard up an old age of pain:
Your maxim, that love is ftill founded
On charms that will quickly decay,
You'll find to be very ill grounded

When once you it's dictates obey.

The paffion from beauty first drawn,

Your kindness will vaftly improve;
Soft fmiles and gay looks are the dawn,

Fruition's the fun-fhine of love.
And tho' the bright beams of your eyes
Should be clouded, that now are fo gay,
And darkness poffefs all the skies,

We ne'er can forget it was day.

Old Darby, with Joan by his fide,
You've often regarded with wonder;

He's dropfical, the is fore-ey'd,

Yet they're ever uneafy afunder; Together they totter about,

Or fit in the fun at the door,

And at night when old Darby's pot's out,
His Joan will not fmoak a whiff more.
No beauty or wit they poffefs,

Their feveral failings to fmother;
Then what are the charms, can you guess,
That make 'em fo fond of each other?
'Tis the pleafing remembrance of youth,

The endearments that love did beftow,

Written by Lord LYTTELTON. WHEN Delia on the plain appears,

Aw'd by a thousand tender fears, I would approach, but dare not move; Tell me, my heart, if this be love. Whene'er the peaks, my ravish'd ear No other voice but her's can hear, No other wit but her's approve; Tell me, my heart, if this be love? If the fome other fwain commend, Tho' I was once his fondest friend, His inftant enemy I prove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love? When the is abfent, I no more Delight in all that pleas'd before, The cleareft fpring, the shadieft grove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love? When, fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets the fpread for ev'ry swain, I ftrove to hate, but vainly ftrove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Written by Dr. GOLDSMITH.

TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper chears the vale
With hofpitable ray.

For here forlorn and loft I tread,

With fainting fteps and flow:
Where wilds, immeafurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.
Forbear, my fon, (the hermit cries,)
To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder phantom only flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
Here to the houfelefs child of want,
My door is open still;

And tho' my portion is but fcant,
I give it with good will.

Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell beftows;
My rathy couch, and frugal fare,

My biefing and repofe.

No flocks that range the valley free, To flaughter I condemn:

Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.

But from the mountain's graffy fide,
A guiltless feaft I bring;
A fcrip with herbs and fruits fupply'd,
And water from the fpring.

Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego,

For earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long.

Soft as the dew from heav'n defcends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modeft ftranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obfcure

The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And ftranger led aftray.

No ftores beneath it's humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket opening with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.
And now when bufy crowds retire

To revels or to reft,

The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And chear'd his penfive gueft:
And fpread his vegetable store,
And gaily preft, and fnil'd;
And skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling'ring hours beguil'd.
Around in fympathetic mirth

It's tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups on the hearth;
The crackiing faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To foothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rifing cares the hermit 'fpy'd,

With answering cares oppreft:

And whence, unhappy youth, (he cry'd,)
The forrows of thy breast?

From better habitations fpurn'd,
Reluctant deft thou rove;
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

Alas! the joys that fortune brings,.
Are trifling, and decay;

And thofe that prize the paltry things,
More trifling ftill than they.
And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to fleep;

A fhade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?

And love is fill an emptier found,
The modern fair-one's jet:
On earth unfeen, or only found
To warm the turtle's neft.

For fhame, fond youth; thy forrows hush, And fpura the fex, (he faid:)

But while he spoke, a rifing blush
His love-lorn gueft betray'd.
Surpriz'd he fees new beauties rife,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning fkies,
As bright, as tranfient too.

The bathful look, the rifing breast,
Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger ftands confeft
A maid in all her charms.

And, ah! forgive a ftranger rude,
A wretch forlorn, (he cry'd ;)
Whofe feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you refide.

But let a maid thy pity fhare,

Whom love has taught to ftray; Who feeks for reft, but finds despair Companion of her way.

My father liv'd befide the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd for mine,
He had but only me.

To win me from his tender arms
Unnumber'd fuitors came:

Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign'd a flame.

Each hour the mercenary crowd,

With richest prefents ftrove: Among the reft young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.

In humble, fimpleft habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he;
Wifdom and worth were all he had,
But thefe were all to me.

The bloffom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refin'd,
Could nought of purity difplay,

To emulate his mind.

The dew, the bloffom on the tree,
With charms inconftant fhine;
Their charms were his, but woe is me,
Their conftancy was mine!

For fill I try'd each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;

And while his paffion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.

Till quite dejected with my fcorn,
He left me to my pride;

And fought a folitude forlorn,
In fecret, where he died.

But mine the forrow, mine the fault,
And well my life fhall pay;
I'll feek the folitude he fought,
And stretch me where he lay.
And there forlorn, defpairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas fo for me that Edwin did,

And fo for him will I.

Forbid it, Heaven! the hermit cry'd,
And clafp'd her to his breast;

The wond'ring fair-one turn'd to chide;
'Twas Edwin's felf that preft.
Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to fee,
Thy own, thy long-loft Edwin here,
Reftor'd to love and thee.

Thus let me hold thee to my heart;
And ev'ry care refign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life my all that's mine?

No, never from this hour to part;

We'll live and love fo true, The figh that rends thy conftant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too.

OTHERS falfe tongues can you believe,
Yet not my truer fpeaking eyes?

Men's tongues love teaches to deceive,
But with his looks no lover lyes.

The less I boat my real flame,

The more my paffion truth befpeaks;
Not what the tongue, but eyes proclaim,
Love's infidel a convert makes.
For lovers, like profefing friends,

Are more believ'd, the lefs they fay;
Who more our artful speeches minds

Than looks, does her own faith betray. Believe not my loud rivals, then,

Whilft they to thee fuch love profess;
True love is, like true courage, feen
But more, as we pretend to't lefs.

ETRICK BANKS; A SCOTCH BALLAD.

ON Etrick banks, in a fummer's night,

Ac glowming when the sheep drave hame, I met my laffy, braw and tight,

Came wading, barefoot, a'her lane: My heart grew light, I ran, I flang

My arms about her lily neck,

And kits'd and clap'd her there fou lang;
My words they were na mony feck.

I faid, My laffy, will ye go

To the highland hills, the Earfe to learn; I'll baith gi'e thee a cow and cwe,

When ye come to the brig of Earn.
At Leith auld meal comes in, ne'er fah,
And herrings at the Broomy Law;

Chear up your heart, my bony lafs,
There's gear to win we never faw.
All day when we have wrought enough,
When winter, frofts, and fnaw begin;
Soon as the fun gaes weft the loch,

At night when you fit down to fpin, I'll fcrew my pipes, and play a fpring: And thus the weary night we'll end, Till the tender kid and lamb-time bring Our pleasant fummer back again.

Syne when the trees are in their bloom,
And gowans glent o'er ilka field,
I'll meet my lafs amang the broom,

And lead you to my fummer fhield.
Then far frae a' their fcornfu' din,

That make the kindly hearts their sports We'll laugh and kifs, and dance and fing, And gar the langeft day seem short.

SONG 620.

Written by AMBROSE PHILIPS, Efq. BOAST not, mistaken swain, thy are To please my partial eyes;

The charms that have fubdu'd my heart, Another may defpife.

Thy face is to my humour made,

Another it may fright;

Perhaps, by fome fond whim betray'd,
In oddness I delight.

Vain youth, to your confufion know,
'Tis to my love's excefs
You all your fancied beauties owe,

Which fade as that grows lefs.

For your own fake, if not for mine,
You should preferve my fire,
Since you, my (wain, no more will shine,
When I no more admire.

By me, indeed, you are allow'd

The wonder of your kind;
But be not of my judgment proud,
Whom love has render'd blind.

SONG 621.

SAY, lovely dream, where could't thou find Shades to counterfeit that face,

Colours of this glorious kind

Come not from any mortal place!

In heaven itself thou, fure, wert dreft
With that angel-like disguise;
Thus deluded am I bleft,

And fee my joy with closed eyes.
But ah! this image is too kind,
To be other than a dream;
Cruel Sachariffa's mind

Ne'er put on that fweet extreme. Fair dream, if thou intend'ft me grace, Change that heavenly face of thine: Paint deipis'd love in thy face,

And make it to appear like mine.

Pale, wan, and meagre let it look,
With a pity-moving fhape;
Such as wander by the brook

Of Lethe, or from graves efcape.

Then to that matchlefs nymph appear, In whofe fhape thou shineft fo, Softly in her fleeping ear,

With humble words exprefs my woe.

Perhaps, from greatnefs, ftate, or pride,
Thus furprized, the may fall:
Sleep does disproportion hide,

And death refembling equals all.

SONG 622.

MY love was fickle once, and changing,
Nor e'er would fettle in my heart,

From beauty still to beauty ranging,
In every face I found a dart.

'Twas firft a charming fhape enflav'd me, An eye then gave the fatal ftroke; Till by her wit Corinna fav'd me,

And all my former fetters broke. But now a long and lafting anguish For Belvidera I endure; Hourly I figh, and hourly languish, Nor hope to find the wonted cure: For here the falfe, inconftant lover,

After a thoufand beauties fhown, Does new fuprifing charms difcover, And finds variety in one.

SONG 623.

NOT, Celia, that I jufter am,

Or truer than the reft;

For I would change each hour, like them, Were it my interest.

But I'm fo fix'd alone to theé

By every thought I have,

That should you now my heart fet free, 'Twould be again your flave.

All that in woman is ader'd,
In thy dear felt I find;

For the whole fex can but afford

The handfome, and the kind.

Not to my virtue, but thy power,
This conftancy is due,

When change itself can give no more
'Tis easy to be true.

SONG 624.

TEN years, like Troy, my ftubborn heart
With flood th' affault of fond defire:

But now, alas! I feel a fmart,
Poor I, like Troy, am fet on fire.

With care we may a pite fecure,

And from all common fparks defend:
But oh! who can a houfe fecure,
When the celestial flames defcend!

I'm a quaker in love, and but barely affirm, Whate'er my fond eyes have been laying: Pr'ythee, be thou fo too; feek for no better term,

But e'en throw thy yea or thy nay in.

I cannot bear love, like a chancery fuit,
The age of a patriarch depending;
Then pluck up a fpirit, no longer be mute,
Give it, one way or other, an ending.

Long courtship's the vice of phlegmatick fools,
Like the grace of fanatical finners;
Where the ftomachs are loft, and the victuals
grow cool,

Before men fit down to their dinners.

SONG 626.

IN Chloris all foft charms agree,
Enchanting humour, pow'rful wit,
Beauty from affectation free,

And for eternal empire fit.
Where'er fhe goes, love waits her eyes,
The women envy, men adore;
Tho' did the lefs the triumphs prize,
She would deferve the conqueft more.

But vanity fo much prevails,

She begs what none elfe would deny her, Makes fuch advances with her eyes,

The hope he gives prevents defire: Catches at every trifling heart,

Grows warm with ev'ry glimm'ring flame; The common prey fo deads her dart, It fearce can pierce a noble game.

I could lie ages at her feet,

Adore her careless of my pain, With tender vows her rigours meet, Defpair, love on, and not complain; My paffion, from all change fecure, No favours raife, no frown controuls; 1 any torment can endure,

But hoping with a crowd of fools.

SONG 627.

IT is not, Celia, in our power

To fay how long our love will last; It may be we, within this hour, May lofe the joys we now do taste: The bleffed, that immortal be, From change of love are only free.

Then fince we mortal lovers are, Aík not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure past: Were it not madness to deny To live, becaufe.we're fure to die?

SONG 628.

Written by Mr. CONGREVE. FAIR Amoret is gone aftray,

Purfue, and feek her, ev'ry lover; I'll tell the fighs by which you may The wand'ring thepherdefs difcover. Coquet and coy at once her air,

Both ftudy'd, tho' both feem neglected, Careless the is with artful cave,Affecting to feem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart every glance,

Yet change fo foon you'd ne'er suspect 'em; For fhe'd perfuade they wound by chance, Tho' certain aim and art direct 'em. She likes herself, yet others hates

For that which in herself fhe prizes; And, while the laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that the defpifes.

SONG 629. SINCE you will needs my heart poffefs, 'Tis just to you I first confefs The faults to which 'tis given; It is to change much more inclin'd Than woman, or the fea, or wind, Or aught that's under heaven. Nor will I hide from you this truth, It has been from it's 'very youth A most egregious ranger: And fince from me 't has often fled, With whom it was both born and bred, "Twill fearce stay with a stranger. The black, the fair, the gay, the fad, (Which often made me fear 'twas mad) With one kind look could win it :

So nat rally it loves to range,
That it has left fuccefs for change,

And, what's worse, glories in it.
Oft, when I have been laid to reft,
"Twould make me act like one poffeft,
For ftill 'twill keep a pother;
And tho' you only I efteem,
Yet it will make me, in a dream,
Court and enjoy another.

And now, if you are not afraid,
After thefe truths that I have faid,
To take this arrant rover,
Be not difpleas'd if I proteft,
I think the heart within your breast
Will prove juft fuch another.

SONG 630.

AS archers and fidlers, who cunningly know
The way to procure themfelves merit,
Will always provide them two ftrings to a bow,
And follow their bufinefs with fpirit.

So likewife the provident damfel should do,
Who'd make the beft ufe of her beauty;
If the mark fhe would hit, or her leffons pass
thro',

Two lovers must ftill be on duty.

Thus arm'd against chance, and secure of supply,
So far our revenge we may carry;
One fpark for our fport we may jilt and set by,
And t'other, poor foul! we may marry..

SONG 631.

FROM native talk the Provence rofe,
I pluckt with green attire;
But oh! upon it's graces hung
A fultus to defire.

A vile, destroying, preying worm,
Who fhelter'd in the leaf,
Had robb'd me of the priftine joy,
And prov'd the lucky thief.

So beauteous nymphs too oft are found
The vilest men to truft;

While conftant lovers plead in vain,
And die for being juft.

SONG 632.

THE night was ftill, the air ferene,
Fann'd by a fouthern breeze;
The glimm ring moon might just be seen,
Reflecting thro' the trees...

The bubbling water's conftant course,
From off th' adjacent hill,
Was mournful eccho's laft refource,
All nature was fo ftill

The conftant shepherd fought this fhade,
By forrow fore opprefs'd;
Clofe by a fountain's margin laid,
His pain he thus express'd..