Ah, wretched youth! why didst thou love,
Or hope to meet fuccefs;
Or think the fair would conftant prove,
Thy blooming hopes to blefs?

Find me the rose on barren fands;

The lily 'midft the rocks;
The grape in wide deferted lands;
A wolf to guard the flocks.

Those you, alas! will fooner gain,
And will more easy find,

Than meet with aught but cold disdain
In faithlefs womankind.

Riches alone now win the fair,

Merit they quite defpife;
The conftant lover, thro' defpair,
Because not wealthy, dies.

A SCOTCH BALLAD.

THE laft time I came o'er the moor,
I left my love behind me;

Ye powers! what pain do I endure,
When foft ideas mind me?
Soon as the ruddy morn display'd
The beaming day enfuing,
I met betimes my lovely maid,
In fit retreat for wooing.

Beneath the cooling fhade we lay,

Gazing and chaftly sporting; We kifs'd and promis'd time away, Till night fpread her black curtain. I pitied all beneath the skies,

Ev'n kings, when he was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes,

Which could but ill deny me. Shou'd I be call'd where canons roar, Where mortal fteel may wound me; Or caft upon fome foreign shore,

Where dangers may furround me: Yet hopes again to fee my love, To feaft on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at diftance move, In profpe&t of fuch bliffes.

Let her liften and learn it from me,
His courage to quell, or his heart to trepan,
As the time and occafion agree.

The girl that has beauty, tho' fmall be her wit,
May wheedle the clown or the beau,
The rake may repel, or may draw in the cit,
By the use of that pretty word No.

When powder'd toupees around are in chat,
Each friving his paffion to fhew;

With kiss me, and love me, my dear, and all that,

Let her anfwer to all be, O no.

When a dofe is contriv'd to lay virtue afleep,

A prefent, a treat, or a ball,

She still must refufe, if her empire fhe'll keep, And No be her answer to all.

But when Mr. Dapperwit offers his hand, Her partner in wedlock to go;

A house and a coach, and a jointure in land, She's an idiot, if then the fays No.

WHEN peace here was reigning,
And love without waining,

Or care or complaining,

Bafe paffions dildaining;
This, this was my way,
With my pipe and my tabor

I laugh'd down the day,

Nor envy'd the joys of my neighbour.

Now fad transformation

Runs thro' the whole nation;
Peace, love, recreation,

All chang'd to vexation;
This, this is my way,

With my pipe and my tabor

I laugh down the day,

And pity the cares of my neighbour.

While all are defigning,
Their friends undermining,
Reviling, repining,
To mitchief inclining;
This, this is my way,

With my pipe and my tabor

I laugh down the day,

And pity the cares of my neighbour.

SONG 638.
Written by Mr. CONGREVE.
LOVE's but the frailty of the mind,

When 'tis not with ambition join'd; A fickly flame, which, if not fed, expires, And feeding, waftes in self-consuming fires. 'Tis not to wound a wanton boy,

Or amorous youth, that gives the joy;
But 'tis the glory to have pierc'd a swain,
For whom inferior beauties figh'd in vain.
Then I alone the conqueft prize,
When I infult a rival's eyes;

If there's delight in love, 'tis when I fee
The heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.

SONG 639.

THE LINNET; A PASTORAL.
Written by Mr. HAWKINS.

AS paffing by a fhady grove,

I heard a linnet fing,

Whofe fweetly plaintive voice of love Proclaim'd the chearful fpring. His pretty accents feem'd to flow

As if he knew no pain;

His downy throat he tun'd fo fweet,
It echo'd o'er the plain.

Contented thus to be; 'Tis only harmony and love

Can be compar'd to thee.

Thus perch'd upon the fpray ye ftand,
The monarch of the fhade;
And even fip ambrofial fweets,

That glow from ev'ry glade.
Did man poffefs but half thy blifs,
How joyful might he be!
But man was never form'd for this,
'Tis only joy for thee.

Then farewel, pretty bird, (I said,)
Purfue thy plaintive tale,

And let thy tuneful accents spread
All o'er the fragrant vale.

ASK not the cause why fullen spring
So long delays her flowers to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to fing,

And winter ftorms invert the year:
Chloris is gone, and fate provides
To make it spring where she refides.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;

She caft not back her pitying eye,
But left her lover in defpair,

To figh, to languish, and to die:
Ah! how can those fair eyes endure
To give the wounds they will not cure!
Great god of love, why haft thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,

And change the laws of ev'ry land? Where thou had'ft plac'd fuch pow'r before, Thou should't have made her mercy more.

Y

When Chloris to the temple comes,

Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs, And ev'ry life but mine recal: I only am by love defign'd To be the victim for mankind.

COLIN.

Yet I'll believe your Chloe's word,

As on my breaft fhe laidThis Strephon is fo dull a clown, He'll think me ftill a maid.

SONG 644.

FAIREST ifle, all ifles excelling, Seat of pleasure and of love, Venus here will chufe her dwelling, And forfake her Cyprian grove ; Cupid, from his favourite nation, Care and envy will remove, Jealoufy that poisons paffion,

And defpair that dies for love. Gentle murmurs, fweet complaining, Sighs that blow the fire of love, Soft repulfes, kind difdaining,

Shall be all the pains you prove. Ev'ry fwain fhall pay his duty,

Grateful ev'ry nymph shall prové, And, as thefe excel in beauty, Thofe fhall be renown'd for love.

SONG 645.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

SHALL I, wafting in defpair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Shall my cheeks look pale with care,
'Caufe another's rofy are?
Be the fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May;

me,

Yet if the think not weil of What care I how fair the be. Shall a woman's goodnefs move Me to perif for her love; Or, her worthy merits known, Make me quite forget my own? Be fhe with that goodness bleft, As may merit name the best;

Yet if the be not fuch to me,
What care I how good the be.
Be the good, or kind, or fair,
I will never more despair;
If the love me, this believe,
I will die ere the shall grieve;
If the flight me when I woo,
I will fcorn, and let her go:

So if the be not fit for me,
What care I for whom the be?

SONG 646.

YE virgin powers defend my heart
From amorous looks and smiles;
From faucy love, or nicer art,
Which most our fex beguiles.
From fighs and vows, and awful fears,
That do to pity move;

From fpeaking filence, and from tears,
Thole fprings that water love.

But if thro' paffion I grow blind,

Let honour be my guide;

And when frail nature feems inclin'd,

There place, a guard of pride.

An heart, whofe flames are seen, tho' pure,
Needs every virtue's aid;
And the who thinks herself secure,
The fooneft is betray'd.

SONG 647

Written by Mr. DRYDEN.
GO tell Amyntas, gentle fwain,

I cannot die, nor dare complain;
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy words will more prevail than mine.
To fouls opprefs'd, and dumb with grief,
The gods ordain this kind relief,
That mufick fhou'd in found convey
What dying lovers dare not fay.

A figh or tear perhaps we'd give,
But love or pity cannot live;

Tell her, that hearts for hearts were made,
And love with love is only paid.

Tell her my pains so fast increase,
That foon they will be paft redrefs!
For ah! the wretch that fpeechless lies,
Attends but death to close his eyes.

SONG 648.

LOVE's a dream of mighty treasure,
Which in fancy we poffefs;

In the folly lies the pleasure,
Wifdom always makes it lefs.
When we think, by paffion heated,
We a goddess have in chace,
Like Ixion we are cheated,
And a gaudy cloud embrace.
Happy only is the lover,"

Whom his mistress well deceives;
Seeking nothing to discover,

He contented lives at eafe.

But the wretch that would be knowing
What the fair-one would difguife,
Labours for his own undoing,
Changing happy to be wife.

SONG 649.

Written by Mr. H.
IN Lincoln Fields there lives a lafs,
Who for a beauty fain would país,
And once I thought her fo, alas!
But now the cafe is alter'd;

For the to me has prov'd unkind,

Her vows were nothing more than wind,
And now, ye gods! no charms I find
In pretty Betfy Norton,

A lady's maid, oh! he would be,
To make her lady's flops and tea,
Or else to drefs her rough toupee,

With all the fkill the can, Sir:
Now John, the footman, is her swain,
And him he never will give pain;
Yet me the treats with cold disdain,

Ah! cruel Betfy Norton.

Though oft together we have ftray'd,
And many times have toy'd and play'd;
But, oh! thou falle, deceiving maid,

To love, and then to flight me!
Was ever fuch a trick as this,
To rob me of fuch heav'nly blifs,
That I experienced from each kifs

Of the fweet Betfy Norton.
But now, my dearest girl, farewel,
No more my tender tale I'll tell,
But where you go I wish you well,

My little dainty doxey.

May you enjoy content of mind,
And ev'ry other bleffing find;
But fince you are to me unkind,
Adieu, fweet Betty Norton !

SONG 650.

WHEN bright Aurelia tript the plain,
How chearful then were feen
The looks of ev'ry jolly fwain,
That troye Aurelia's heart to gain,
With gambols on the green?

Their sports were innocent and gay,
Mixt with a manly air,

They'd fing and dance, and pipe and play,
Each ftrove to please fome different way,
This dear enchanting fair.

Th' ambitious ftrife fhe did admire,

And equally approve,

Till Phaon's tuneful voice and lyre,
With foftest mufic, did infpire

Her foul to generous love.

Their wonted fports the reft declin'd,
Their arts prov'd all in vain;
Aurelia's conftant now they find,
The more they languish and repin'd
The more the loves the fwain.

SONG 651.

MY goddess, Lydia, heavenly fair,
As lily fweet, as foft as air,
Let loofe thy treffes, fpread thy charms,
And to my love give fresh alarms.

O! let me gaze on these bright eyes,
Tho' facred lightning from them flies;
Shew me that foft, that modeft grace,
Which paints with charming red thy face,

Give me ambrofia in a kiss,

That I may rival Jove in blifs;
That I may mix my foul with thine,
And make the pleasure all divine,