Of me that fhall be clean forgot,
As I had ne'er been born.

Thus must I youth give up,

Whole badge I long did wear!
To them I yield the wanton cup,
That better may it bear.
Lo here the bared full;

By whose bald fign I know,
That stooping age away shall pull
What youthful years did fow.
For beauty with her band,

Thefe crooked cares had wrought, And fhipp'd me into the land

From whence I first was brought. And ye that bide behind,

Have ye none other truft?
As ye of clay were caft by kind,
So fhall ye turn to duft.

SONG 737.

COME, thou rofy dimpled boy,
Source of every heart-felt joy
Leave the blissful bow's awhile,
Paphos, and the Cyprian ife;
Vifit Britain's rocky shore,
Britons, too, thy pow'r adore;
Britons, hardy, bold and free,
Own thy laws, and yield to thee:
Source of ev'ry heart-felt joy,
Come, thou rofy dimpled boy.
Hafte to Sylvia, hafte away,
This is thine and Hymen's day;
Bid her thy foft bandage wear,
Bid her for love's rites prepare;
Let the nymphs, with many a flow'r,
Deck the facred nuptial bow'r,
Thither lead the lovely fair,
And let Hymen, too, be there:
This is thine and Hymen's day;
Hafte to Sylvia, haste away.
Only while we love we live,
Love alone can pleasure give;
Pow'r, and pomp, and tinfel ftate,
Idle pageants of the great;
Crowns and fceptres, envy'd things,
And the pride of Eaftern kings,
Are but childish, empty toys,
When compar'd to love's fweet joys.
Love alone can pleasure give;
Only while we love we live.

TO chace o'er the plain the fox or the hare,
Such pleasure no fport car e'er bring;
It banishes forrow, and drives away care,
And makes us more bleft than a king:
Whenever we hear the found of the horn,
Our hearts are tranfported with joy :
We rife and embrace, with the earliest dawn,
A paftime that never can cloy.
O'er furrows and hills our game we pursue,

No danger our breast can invade; The hounds in full cry our joys will renew, And increase the pleafures difplay'd; The freedom our confcience never alarms, We live free from envy and ftrife; If bleft with a spouse return to her arms, Sports, fweetness, and conjugal life. The courtier who toils o'er matters of state, Can ne'er fuch a happiness know; The grandeur and pomp enjoy'd by the great, Can ne'er fuch a comfort beftow: Our days pafs away in fcenes of delight, Our pleasure's ne'er taken amifs: We hunt all the day, and revel all night; What joy can be greater than this?

SONG 740.

BRITANNIA; A CANTATÁ.

RECITATIVE.

WHEN difcord ceas'd, and bloody broils no

more

In war destructive hook this happy fhore; When carnage ceas'd, and death refus'd to

ftain

With British blood the dreadful martial plain

Bb

Britannia rofe, and with a graceful fmile, In gentle accents, thus addrets'd her ifle.

AIR.

Ye Britons, what nation but England can fing,
In freedom we rife ev'ry day;
In freedom we fleep, and are bleft with a king
'Tis a pleature in all to obey:
Then, my children, encrease
The fweet bleffings of peace,
Let trumpets in melody join;
While truth fhall proclaim
George's virtues and fame,
Which on record for ever will hine.
RECITATIVE.

The found feraphic reach'd the royal ear,
And gazing crowds the heav'nly accents hear;
Reviving joy returns in ev'ry breast,
War difappear'd, and peace the kingdom bleft;
The happy ifle no greater bleffing feeks.
The monarch rifes, and thus nobly fpeaks:
AIR.

Britannia, be affur'd, I pride to fee
Myfelf the monarch of a people free;
Happy to govern o'er this blitsful ifle,
Where bleffings on my fubjects ever smile;
As long as I the royal fceptre bear,

My country's godd fhall be my greatest care;
May peace continue, nor my people know
The cafual griefs which from Bellona flow;
Firm to Britannia's caufe my arms shall sleep,
As long as England's foes their treaties keep;
But if my lion is induc'd to roar,

Deftruction hovers round the Gallic fhore.

SONG 741.

Sung in ALFRED.

AS calms fucceed when forms are paft, And ftill the raging main ;

So love will have it's hour at last,

And borrow fweets from pain.

No more I'll fhun the face of day,

Within these fhades to mourn
All joys with Alfred fled away,
All meet in his return.

SONG 742.

Sung at VAUXHALL. YOUNG Strephon, the artless, the dangerous fwain,

My love and efteem has attempted to gain; With the fame wicked arts he fooft hade tray'd, He thought to feduce one more innocent maid: But appriz'dof his pow'r, of my weakness aware, I baffled his fcheme, and avoided the fnare; For virtue I love, and was taught in my dawn, When I gather'd the rofe, to beware of the thorn.

His tears I neglected, his oaths I defpis'd, For his heart by thofe tears, by thofe oaths he difquis'd;

What prefents he brought me I chose to decline,
(The prodigal bounty of art and defign:)
He coax'd and be flatter'd, but flatter'd in vain,
And practis'o each art on my weakness to ga nj
Protected by prasence, I laugh'd him to fcern,
Tho' Ifancy'd the role, yet I dreaded the thorn.

Hewantonly boasted what nymphs he had won,
What credu bus beauties his arts had undone;
He wore that his fath fhould inviolate be,
That his heart and thole fair-ones were victims

to me:

I told him thofe victims and faith I'd despise, And from fuch examples would learn to be wife; That I never would profitute virtue to scorn, Or fmell at the rofe to be hurt by the thorn.

Was the pejord betrayer afham'd of his guilt, Was his palion on virtue, not wantonness, built; Was his heart as fincere as his oaths are profane, I could fancy (I own, I could fancy) the fwa: But experience has taught me 'tis dang'rous to trust,

And fully to think he can ever be juft:

So I'll stifle my flame, and reject him with fcorn; Left I grafp at the role, and be hurt by the thorn.

SONG 743

Sung at SADLER'S WELL.

GOOD mother, if you please, you may

Place others to obferve my way;
Or be yourself the watchful fpy,
And keep me ever in your eye:
Unless the wiil itfelf reftrain,
The care of others is in vain;
And if myfelf I do not keep,
Inftead of watching, you may fleep.

When you forbid what love infpires,
Forbidding, you but fan it's fires;
Refraint does appetite enrage,

And youth may prove too long for age
Then leave me unconfin'd and free,
With prudence for my lock and key;
For if myself I do not keep,
Inftead of watching, all may fleep.

A BALLAD FOR THE YEAR 1758,

LAST year all the cry

Was, that taxes ran high,
And the revenue funk by foul play;
That our feets were defeated,
Our armies ill-treated,

And commerce quite gone to decay.

Port Mahon we had loft, And our fleets on the coaft Paraded, but dare not attack;

Tha. they went with a how

Of a terrible blow,

But return'd most ingloriously back.

For the fcourge of our foes,
A Pit then arofe,

Th' afferter of liberty's caufe;
Corruption then fled,

Nor could vice fhew ber head,
For virtue was guarded by laws.

The trumpet of fame,
Then founded the name

Of Howe; to Gallia he past,

And bid her prepare

Such a clarion to hear

That the bulwarks fhould shake at the blast.

Nor warn'd be in vain,

For France once again

Felt the force of a maritime pow'r;
British hearts were employ'd,
French ftrength was deftroy'd,

And her coaqueits were talk'd of no more.

Befcawen went forth,

And far in the north

Spread the glories of Britain's fair ifle:
Old Neptune and Mars
Grant fuccefs to the tars,
And the heavens propitiously fmile.

Cape Breton's our own,
Frontenac is o'erthrown,
And Senegal gloriously won;
Commerce lends us it's aid,
And now flourishes trade,
Whilft that of our foes is undone.

No more we complain

We are flaves, to maintain Troops ufelefs, and fhips unemploy'd; Heart and hand we combine, With our leaders to join,

Till our enemies all are defroy'd.

May our forces abroad,

Still continue a rod,

To fcourge lawlefs ambition and pride; And may patriot zeal,

For our country's weal,

At home in our councils prefide.

Then let each honeft heart,
Before we depart,

Fill a glafs to the toast I propofe;
May the fifty and nine,

With the last year combine,
Te humble the pride of our foes.

SONG 746.

CAN the shepherds and nymphs of the grove
Condemn me for dropping a tear;

Or lamenting aloud as I rove,
Since Sufan no longer is here?

My flocks, if at random they ftray,

What wonder, fince he's from the plain?**** Her hand they were wont to obey,

She rul'd both the fheep and the swain.

SONG 747.

Sung at MARY BONE.

WELL, if I continue but in the fame mind, I never fhall wed, I proteft,

There's fomething fo fhocking in all the male kind,

That bad my thoughts pictur'd the beft.

The nymphs would perfuade, and talk till they

vex,

Love's lure to catch youth in the prime; Why if one must like the oppofite fex,

I think feventeen the right time.

They tell it as ftrange, I fhould be fo annoy'd
At men who were meant for cur good;
But what's in one's nature we cannot avoid,
I'd be in the mode if I cou'd.

The fhepherds all wonder that from them I fly.
If feen o'er the plain as I go:

Why ftill let them wonder at diftance, fay I, The men fhould be always kept fo.

Young Colin declares my averfion's a joke,

And thinks in my heart to fucceed;
For woman, he fays, never thought as the fpoke:
He's mighty obliging, indeed!

He caught me juft now, and it came in his head,
To kiss me, but from him i tore;
Yet really believe, had he done as he faid,
He could not have frighten d me more.

I hope that fuch freedoms he'll ne'er again ufe,
My fix'd refolution to try;

For on! I am certain I fhall not refufe.
I mean, that I fhall not comply.

If Chloe frown, behold defpair
Surrounds his steps, and taints the air;
But if the fmile with fictious leer,
He quick becomes thy charioteer.
Thus, whether merry, whether fad,
He rides upon thy airy pad;
Whether grave, or melancholy,
Still he's thine, enchanting Folly.

RECITATIVE.

Thou conftant attendant on wealth and on ftate, On the vain and the proud, the ambitious and great!

At thy thrine what a number of fuppliants and, Turn'd this way, and that, at the word of command!

AIR.

'Tis to thee, O Folly dear,
We owe that wealth is spread;
Thy arts e'en mifers can engage
Thy flow'ry paths to tread.

Would fplendid Bath's luxurious feats
Exift, devoid of thee?

Ah, no! her fprings might ftill bathe hogs,
And Dawson lofe his fee.

Plac'd on the pinnacle of ftate,

Thy fav'rites thou canst fave; Canft alter the decrees of fate, And bid the Gaul be brave.

RECITATIVE.

Thou, O thou most lafting of all human things, Who still cant befriend us, tho' riches have wings!

Tho' reafon forfake us, and honours decay!" Let thy vot'ries ne'er harbour a doubt of thy stay.

SONG 50.

WHERE fhall I feek my fav'rite maid,
In valley, mead, or grove?
Or tell me, does the myrtle fhade
Inclofe the fair I love?

Or does the feek the fhady bower,
Or haunt the filent glade,
Where the has oft, at ev'ning hour,
With love and Damon stray'd?
Or does the doubt my ardent love,
And feek fome other fwain;
And leave her bleating flock to rove,
Neglected, o'er the plain?

But oh! forbear, my panting breast,

Forbear these vain alarms;
For fee!: the fair-one deigns to reft
In fleep's foft, folding arms.
Be hush'd awhile, ye warb'ing choir,
Your tuneful notes forbear;

Young Sally he faw fitting under a thorn: Amaz'd at her beauty, her shape, and her mien,

Comedian.

Written by Mr. HAWKINS.

SINCE Barry's foft accents are now heard

no more,

The mufe that ardor'd them for him will deplore; His praife will the fing, for, ye gods, how it spread! With laurels the mufes e'er crowned his head. What beauties he fhew'd us in each tragic part, Such beauties as melted and pierc'd the cold heart;

How eafy and graceful the ftage he would tread; Then why should not laurels be plac'd on his head.

In comedy, too, how he charm'd in each scene!
So pleafing his manners, fo fweet was his mien;
That here no difpraises he e'er had to dread,
Whilft laurels of nonour furrounded his head.
Then weep, all ye Nine, for your favourite swain,
All join in a chorus of fome folemn strain;
For tho' from this world the dear Corydon's fled,
Forget not the laurels ye plac'd on his head.

SONG 752.

DEAR Sylvia, hear thy faithful fwain,
And eafe his tortur'd breast;
Ah, hear an artless youth complain,
And fet his heart to rest!

That virtue which illumes thy mind,

That fenfe devoid of art;
That innocence with fweetnefs join'd,
Does captivate his heart.
Thou dear invader of my breaft,
How long must I repine!
How long with grief be fore opprefs'd,
Ere I can call thee mine!

O deign to hear the vows I fwear,
And all my fears remove;
Relieve me, then, from fad despair,
And bless me with thy love.

queen.

Written by Mr. R. DAWRE.
WHY fleeps my foul! My love, arife!
Heav'n now wakes with all it's eyes;
All nature's up to gaze on you,
Her fole delight and glory too:
Awake to hear thy lover's lay;
Alife, my fair, and come away.

The filent moon full-orb'd now reigns,
And filver fhews the hills and plains,
That fragrant yield their rich per fume;
Confpiring, all invite to come;
Then why, my love, is this delay!
Arife, my fair, and come away.

The flowers fend forth their choiceft sweets,
No fun difturbs with fultry heats;
Thefe, alone, are hours to prove
All the joys of peace and love.
No longer, then, my blifs delay;
But rife, my fair, and come away.
For, Nancy, when thou art not near,
In vain do all these fweets appeari