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All endeavours are vain
To affuage the tharp pain.

Which is felt in a love-troubled heart.

Though life's busy scene
May oft help to ferene

And difperfe the dark clouds of despair;
Yet when night's filent noon
Helps to add to it's gloom,

Who can fay what the mind fuffers there?

Hafte this day to employ,
Thus devoted to joy,

And with innocent mirth let's abound;
Thus in chorus we'll fing,
While the forest shall ring
With the burthen of mufic's foft found.

May all present attain
A life free from pain,
Ever ftrangers to difcord or ftrife;
May the fingle foon find,
In the maiden that's kind,
The joys of an amiable wife!

SONG 682.

FEMALE ADVICE.

PURSUING beauty, men defcry The diftant fhore, and long to prove, Still richer in variety,

The treafures of the land of love. We women, like weak Indians, ftand,

Inviting from our golden coaft The wand'ring rovers to our land;

But he who trades with them is loft. With humble vows they firft begin, Stealing unfeen, into the heart; But, by poffeflion fettled in,

They quickly act another part. For beads and baubles we refign,

In ignorance, our fhining store, Discover nature's richest mine,

And yet the tyrants will have more. Ye fair, take heed, forbear to try

How men can court, or you be won; For love is but difcovery,

When that is made the pleafure's done.

SONG 683. THE fun in virgin luftre shone,

May-morning put it's beauties on; The warblers fung in livelier ftrains, And fweeter flow'rets deck'd the plains; When love, a foft intruding gueft, That long had dealt in Damon's breaft, Now whifper'd to the nymph, Away! For this is nature's holiday.

The tender impulfe wing'd his hafte;
The painted mead he inftant pass'd,
And foon the happy cot he gain'd,
Where beauty flept, and filence reign'd:
Awake, my fair! (the fhepherd cries)
To new-born pleasure ope thine eyes;

Arife. my Sylvia! hail the May,
For this is nature's holiday.

Forth came the maid, in beauty bright
As Phoebus in meridian light,
Entranc'd in rapture, all confefs'd,
The fhepherd clafp'd her to his breaft;
Then gazing with a fpeaking eye,
He fnatch'd a kits, and heav'd a figh;
A melting figh, and feem'a to fay,
Confider youth's our holiday.

Ah, foft, (fhe faid) for pity's fake!
What, kifs one ere I'm well awake?
For this fo early came you here?
And bail you thus the rifing year?
Sweet innocence! forbear to chide,
We'll hate to joy, (the fwain reply'd;)
In pleafure's flow'ry fields we'll stray,
And this fhall be love's holiday.

A crimson glow warm'd o'er her cheek,
She look'd the things fhe dar'd not speak;
Confent own'd nature's fort command,
And Damon feiz'd her trembling hand:
His dancing heart in transports play'd,
To church he led the blufhing maid;
Then blefs'd the happy morn of May,
And now their life's all holiday.

SONG 684. Sung at RANELAGH, THE fragrant lily of the vale, So elegantly fair,

Whofe fweets perfume the fanning gale, To Chloe I compare;

What tho' on earth it lowly grows,

And ftrives it's head to hide!
It's fweetnefs far outvies the rofe,
That flaunts with fo much pride.
The coftly tulip owes it's hue

To many a gaudy ftain,
In this we view the virgin white
Of innocence remain:

See how the curious florift's hand
Uprears it's humble head,
And to preferve the charming flow'r,
Transplants it to his bed.

There while it theds it's fweets around,
How fhines each modest grace!
Enraptur'd, how it's owner ftands
To view it's lovely face!
But pray, my Chloe, now obferve
The inference of my tale,
May I the florift be, and thou
The lily of the vale.

SONG 685.

Sung in the Capricious Lovers. WHEN vapours o'er the meadows die, And morning freaks the purple sky, I wake to love with jocund glee, To think on him who doats on me. When eve embrowns the verdant grove, And Philomel laments her love,

Each figh I breathe my love reveals,
And tells the pangs my bofom feels.

With fecret pleasure I furvey
The frolic birds in amorous play,
While fondest cares my heart employ,
Which flutters, leaps, and beats for joy.

SONG 686.

RETIREMENT.

Written by Mr. NICHOLLS.
FROM London's fmoaky, fœtid air,
The feat of traffic and of ca e,
Take me, ye rural pow'rs;
With you, in your fequefter'd ways,
Where peace, that rofe-lip'd cherub ftrays,
I'd pafs the fleeting hours.

What tho' with you no balls invite,
Or painted beauties catch the fight,
Yet nature has fupply'd

Far, far more lafting joys than these,
Sweet vocal birds on flow'ring trees,
The ceol meand'ring tide;

The rofy maid, the jocund fwains,
The filver flocks on verdant plains,
The unobstructed breeze;
The cryftal fpring, the babbling rill,
Gay profpects as we mount the hill,

With folitude and eafe;

The furze-blown heath, the fragrant thorn, And ample fields of rifing corn,

The farmer's promis d wealth;

But more than all, what feldem found
In diffipation's vicious round,

Vivacity and health.

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SONG 689.
Written by Mr. HAWKINS.
LOVELY Flavia, lift, I pray,
To yon warbler on the spray;
Hear, my fair, his matin tale,
Charming as the vernal gale,

View the fields all fmiling round;
See the flow'rets deck the ground;
And the frifky lambkins ftray,
With their dams in wanton play.

See the shepherd penfive fit,
with his bottle near at hand,
Making of a home-fpun net;
His maftiff too, at his command.

How contented is his state!
He envy's not the rich and great;

Free from forrows, free from pain,
Is the fhepherd on the plain.
Except his Daphne proves unkind,
Then difconcerted is his mind;
Till the refolves to prove more true,
Then all his cares the doth fubdue.

SONG 690.

A SONNET.

When a lover mildly proffers

You his hand-his truth to prove, Then, you may accept his offers,

For they come from artless love. What on earth can give fuch pleasure ! What fo foon our cares remove!

What can be fo great a treasure
As fincere and artless love!

SONG 693.

BE hufh'd, ye fweet birds, and forbear your OF Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,

fhrill notes,

Nor deign fuch a clamour to keep; But stop a few moments, and rest your foft throats,

For here lies a goddess asleep!

Keep off, ye pert flies, from the cheek of my fair,

And let her contentedly lay; For, if you prefume to alight on her face, "You'll wake her as fure as 'tis day!"

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Written by Mr. W-LL-S. LOVE's a pleafing noble paffion,

Kindly fent us from above; And tho' growing out of fashion, What can equal artless love? What tho' moderns difregard it, I like them will never prove: Diffimulation!-I difcard it; Nought can pleafe like artlefs love. When a lover fues for favour,

And with oaths would pity move, Truft not, Delia, fuch behaviour, 'Tis devoid of artlefs love." 'Tis defign'd but to deceive you,

When he swears to pow'rs above; Of your peace he would bereave you, Think not, then, 'tis artless love.

Bright Lucy was the grace; Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid ftream Reflect a fairer face.

Till luckless love and pining care

Impair'd her roly hue,.
Her coral lips, her damask cheeks,
And eyes of gloffy blue.
Oh! have you feen the lily pale

'When beating rains descend?
So droop'd this flow-confuming maid,
Her life now hear it's end.
By Lucy warn'd, of flatt'ting swains
Take heed, ye easy fair!
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjur'd fwains, beware!
Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;
And thrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flapp'd her wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The folemn-boding found,
And thus in dying word's bespoke

The maidens weeping round.
I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which fays I muft not stay;

I fee a hand you cannot fee,

Which beckons me away.
By a falfe heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die:
Was I to blame, because the bride

Is twice as rich as I?
Ah, Colin, give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone!

Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kifs,
And think him all thy own!

To-morrow in the church to wed

Impatient both prepare:

But know, fond maid, and know, falfe That Lucy will be there.

Then bear my corfe, ye comrades dear, The bridegroom blithe to meet;

He in his wedding-trim fo gay,

I in my winding-fheet!

man,

She fpoke, and dy'd-her corfe was borne, The bridegroom blithe to meet;

He in his wedding-trim fo gay,

She in her winding-sheet.

Oh! what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts How were thofe nuptials kept!

The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Compaffion, shame, remorfe, despair,
At once his bofom fwell :
The damps of death bedew'd his brows,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, a bride no more,

The varying crimson fled; When, ftretch'd befide her rival's corse, She faw her husband dead.

He to his Lucy's new-made grave,

Convey'd by trembling swains, One mold with her, beneath one fod, For ever now remains.

Oft at this place the conftant hind

And plighted maid are seen: With garlands gay, and true-love knots They deck the sacred green. But, fwain forfworn, whoe'er thou art, This hallow'd spot forbear! Remember Colin's dreadful fate, And fear to meet him there.

SONO 694.

Written by Mr. NICHOLLS. WITH Phebe, wherever I go,

The gay ones thus fing of my love:
On her cheek what a delicate glow!
Hark! the peaks like a feraph above.
See her eyes, how delightful they feem!
Brighter far than the brightest of spars!
When they deign on poor mortals to beam,
'Fore heaven they rival the stars!
The red coral imported from far,

The rich balfam the honey bee fips,
It were felly for us to compare
To the colour and taste of her lips!
That the merits thefe praifes, I own;

That her form is compleatly defign'd,
Will, I think, be refuted by none;

But the wants the rare gifts of the mind. What are eyes, lips, or cheeks, or a mien! What is all that the fchools can impart! What's the finest complexion e'er feen!

If the graces are not in the heart!
Lovely Phebe, henceforward be wife,
Ah! pr'ythee coquette it no more,
Or your bepherd will furely defpife,
The the fops of the town may adore.

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No foaring pinions reach the skies,
To hail the infant dawn.

The shepherd now his crook forfakes,
His pipes and fleecy care;
No mattins warble from the brakes,
Or rend the gloomy air.

Fair Phillis, hear the direful truth,
To nature's laws attend;
Triumph not o'er thy gen'rous youth,
Or mourn the fatal end.

Depend not on thy fading charms,
Or their united pow'r;

Refign them to Amintor's arms,

And blefs the happy hour.

Then fhall life's fpring glide on ferene,
No ruffling tempeft reign;
So fhall you prove love's happy queen,
And bless a faithful fwain.

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THE fun was funk beneath the hill,
The western clouds were lin'd with gold,
Clear was the sky, the wind was ftill,

The flocks were penn'd within the fold;
When in the filence of the grove
Poor Damon thus despair'd of love.

Who feeks to pluck the fragrant rofe

From the hard rock or ouzy beach;
Who from each weed that barren grows,
Expects the grape or downy peach;
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in womankind.

No herds have I, no fleecy care,

No fields that wave with golden grain, No paftures green, or gardens fair,

A woman's venal beart to gain; Then all in vain my fighs muft prove, Whofe whole eftate, alas! is love,

How wretched is the faithful youth,

Since women's hearts are bought and fold; They ask no vows of facred truth,

Whene'er they figh, they figh for gold. Gold can the frowns of fcorn remove; But I am fcorn'd-who have but love,

To buy the gems of India's coaft

What wealth, what riches would fuffice? Yet India's fhore fhould never boast

The luftre of thy rival eyes;

For there the world too cheap must prove;
Can I then buy-who have but love!

Then, Mary, fince nor gems nor ore
Can with thy brighter felf compare,
Be just as fair, and value more

Than gems or ore, a heart fincere:
Let treasure meaner beauties move;
Who pays thy worth, mult pay in love.

SONG 698.

THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERDESS.

Written by Mr. HAWKINS. THAT little rogue Cupid, I vow,

Is playing fuch tricks with my heart, I flutter-I cannot tell how,

Yet feel the fharp pangs of his dart. What cruel, ungenerous fwain,

Could fend this fond urchin to me, Whole heart was a ftranger to pain,

And e'er rov'd as free as a bee. But now my poor fenfes are gone,

My fpirits are filed from me quite, And I'm a poor maiden forlorn,

No reft can I take day or night. How happy, ah! once, fure, was I! So chearfully rofe in the morn, But now am addicted to figh

For him that I treated with fcorn. Young Caledon must be the fwain,

None like him appears to my view;
He caught my fond heart on the plain,
Ah! hepherd, I'm wretched for you:
Oh! come then, dear youth, and be kind,
No longer difdainful I'll be,

But harbour content in my mind,
And think upon no one but thee.

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CEASE, dear charmer, thus to vex thee,
Conftant, lo! thy fwain appears;

Let not groundless fears perplex thee,
Faithfulness to thee he fwears.

Ceafe thy trouble, cease thy pain,
Never will we part again;
Then let cam content and rest
Poffefs again thy peaceful breast.

From thy tender bofom banish

All thofe vain tormenting fears;
See, the clouds of forrow vanish,
And the fun of joy appears:

Thy trial now, fair maid, is o'er,
Ne'er fhall thou know forrow more;
But together will we prove
The joys of conftancy and love.

Now in Hymen's bands united,
We a happy pair will prove ;
Loving each, and each delighted,
Tate the joys of truth and love
Then in peace our days fhall flow,
Sorrow will we never know;
But refign'd to Heav'n's decrecs,
Live in happiness and cafe.

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