It ne'er was apparell'd with art,

On words it could never rely;
It reign'd in the throb of my heart,
It gleam'd in the glance of my eye.
Oh, fool! in the circle to fhine

That fashion's gay daughters approve,
You must fpeak as the fashions incline;
Alas! are there fashions in love?
Yet fure they are fimple who prize
The tongue that is fmooth to deceive;
Yet fure the had fenfe to defpife

The tinfel that foily may weave. When I talk'd, I have feen her recline With an afpect fo penfively fweet; Tho' I fpoke what the shepherds opine, A fop were aham'd to repeat. She is foft as the dew-drops that fail From the lip of the fweet-fcented pea; Perhaps, when the fmil'd upon all,

I have thought that the fmil'd upon me. But why of her charms should I tell?

Ah, me! whom her charms have undone! Yet I love the reflection too well,

The painful reflection to fhun.

Ye fouls of more delicate kind,

Who feaft not on pleafure alone,
Who wear the foft fenie of the mind,
To the fons of the world ftill unknown;

Ye know, tho' I cannot exprefs,
Why I foolishly doat on my pain;
Nor will ye believe it the lefs,

That I have not the fkill to complain.

I lean on my hand with a figh,

My friends the foft fadness condemn; Yet, methinks, the' I cannot tell why, I should hate to be merry like them. When I walk'd in the pride of the dawn,

Methought all the region look'd bright: Has fweetnefs forfaken the lawn?

For, methinks, I grow fad at the fight. When I stood by the ftream, I have thought There was mirth in the gurgling foft found; But now 'tis a forrowful note,

And the banks are all gloomy around! I have laugh'd at the jeft of a friend; Now they laugh and I know not the caufe, Tho' I feem with my looks to attend,

How filly! I ask what it was.

They fing the fweet fong of the May,

They fing it with mirth and with glee;
Sure I once thought the fonnet was gay,
But now 'tis all fadness to me.
Oh! give me the dubious light

That gleams thro' the quivering fhade;
Oh! give me the horrors of night,

By gloom and by filence array'd!
Let me walk where the foft-rifing wave
Has pictur'd the moon on it's breast:
Let me walk where the new-cover'd grave
Allows the pale lover to rest!

When fhall I in it's peaceable womb
Be laid with my forrows afleep!
Should Lavinia but chance on my tomb→→→
I could die if I thought he would weep.
Perhaps, if the fouls of the juft
Revifit thefe manfions of care,
It may be my favourite truft

To watch o'er the fate of the fair.
Perhaps the foft thought of her breaft

With rapture more favour'd to warm; Perhaps, if with forrow opprefs'd,

Her forrow with patience to arm. Then! then! in the tendereft part May I whisper, Poor Colin was true; And mark if a heave of her heart The thought of her Colin purfue.

SONG 781.

BANISH'D by your fevere command, I make an awful, fad retreat,

To fome more hofpitable land;

But fhail I then my fair forget? No, there I'll charm the lift'ning throng, With repetitions of your name; My paffion tell in plaintive fong,

And fadly penfive foothe my fame. With inbred fighs, the grateful fwains My tale will beg me to renew; Sweetly appeas'd, beguile their pains, Transported when I speak of you.

But fhould fome curious youth demand, Why from my beauteous theme 1 ftray? With what confufion theuld I ftand!

What wou'd my charmer have me fay?

SONG 782.

Occafioned by a young Gentleman's declining to write, after having read the Works of POPE and SWIFT.

AMINTOR, how canft thou refuse

To grant me fo fmall a request;.
Why urge you the want of Pope's mufe,
Or the Doctor's poetical zest?

I vow, tho' their numbers are fweet,
And ev'ry fentence divine;
Tho' their value I reckon fo great,
No lefs would I fet upon thine.

Would't thou fing of the plain or the grove,
Or lament fome unfortunate maid,
The mufes, fair daughters of Jove,

With raptures would readily aid.
What tho' they at first may seem coy,

'Tis but to be clofer purfu'd;
They, like other nymphs, will comply,
When once they are heartily woo'd.

Will nought thy ambition fuffice,
But the laurel thy temples to grace?

If ftill thou refolve to defpife

All but the fuperlative place;

Yet think how the criticks in town

Misjudge of poetical fire;

From the tkies should Apollo come down, They'd carp at his heavenly lyre.

If the blind Grecian poet they praise, 'Tis to fhew you their skill in the tongue, Defpifing Pope's beautiful lays,

And fwearing his verfion is wrong: But had not that bard of renown

Their ignorance Geign'd to inform, Of Homer no more they'd have known, Than if he had never been born. For me, I difdain to regard

What these trifling cenfurers fay; If fuch a e deny'd their reward,

Hope I to fpeed better than they? Let my friends but approve of my ftrains, Vouchfafing a smile on my fong; Then I'm overpaid for my pains, Nor value an ill-natur'd tongue.

SONG 783.
Sung in Cymon.

WHAT exquifite pleasure!

This fweet treasure

From me they shall never
Sever;

In thee, in thee,

My charmer I fee:

I'll figh, and carefs thee,

I'll kiss thee, and prefs thee,

Thus, thus, to my bofum, for ever and ever.

SONG 784.

THE FORSAKEN MAID.

YOUNG Chloe, once the giyeft maid
That tript upon the plain,
Upon a fhady bank was laid,

There to lament her pain.

The laughing Cupids left her eyes,
Her hand fupports her head;.

Her tuneful voice was drown'd in fighs,
Her ev'ry charm was fled.

The little birds fung from on high,
And ftrain'd their warbling throats;
Yet the regardlefs feem'd to lie,

Nor harken'd to their notes.

A purling stream ran murm'ring by,
In pity to her pain;

Sad echo, who flood lift'ning nigh,
Return'd each figh again.
Heart-rending fighs, flown from her breaft,
Make way for fome fad words;

Her flutt'ring heart, now more at rest,
Some little eafe affords.

Ye warbling choirs, your mufic ceafe!
The love-fick Chloe faid;

Thou bubbling brook! a moment's peace,
And hear a wretched maid!

Ah! cruel Strephon, faithlefs youth!
Thou dear ungrateful fwain!
Thus to reward my love and truth,
And leave me to complain,

I range the groves through ev'ry part,
In hopes to cafe my care;
But ah! 'tis grounded in my heart,

Your dear idea's there.

Each tender whifper that I hear,
Each foft, deceiving noife,
I tremble betwixt hope and fear,

And think 'tis Strephon's voice.
But Strephon thinks no more of me,
His heart's too full of joys;
He's found a more deferving the,
Who all his thoughts employs.

The farmer's daughter baulk'd her cows,
To buy of gingerbread a poufe;
And kitchen Maikin pinn'd her hood,
To meet her (park of defh and blood.
The country lady cheapen'd toys,
And ballad- finger ftrain's her voice;
Plebeian dames join nymphs of birth,
As grafs and flow'rs enamel earth.
The country ladies feem'd to me
Too much to mimic quality;

And milk-maids charms, and aukward ways,
Could not my nicer fancy pleafe.

But when I turn'd, and look'd again,

I fpy'd Mifs Jenny in the train,
In blooming youth and beauty gay,
As fresh as any queen of May.

D d

Of graceful mien, and high-born race, Yet humble as the village lafs;

Like fome defert which crowns the feast, And makes amends for all the reft.

In orchard fo the faunt'ring youth Surveys the fruit with gaping mouth, Where many an apple meets his tafte, Which he rejects with fputt'ring hafte. But when he views the Cath'rine pear, Of tempting form, and colours rare; The lufcious bait to reach he skips, And longs to have it at his lips.

SONG 787.

CUPID, thou waggish, artful boy,
What have I done t' excite thy hate?
Oh! ever arm'd with cruelty,

Thus to precipitate my fate.
I faw, I lov'd, I am undone,

She at each vifit feems more coy, You Urchin! faeering at my mean,

Half promife blifs, and half deny. The wound you gave, admits no cure, Till time has thaw'd her frozen heart, Jenny can life or death enfure,

Jenny! my foul's far dearer part. With equal force once twang the bow, Transfix the charmer, let her bleed; The feeds of love fecurely fow,

And clear the foil of ev'ry weed. Were I, thro' fome fierce tyrant's hate, Condemn'd to racks, the fmiling fair Cou'd blunt the keeneft dart of fate,

And from the dying chace despair.

If pray'rs and tears are still in vain,

Think not (proud chit) I dread your pow'r; Know, that to truckle I difdain,

Or fhrink, tho' all thy thunders roar.

If I muft die, the ftroke begin,

For I'm a man unus'd to fear;

By Jenny's hand wreck all thy fpleen,
I die content, to die by her.

SONG 788.

ON A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

PRETTY tube of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my hot defire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire;
And thy fnowy, taper waift,
With my finger gently brac'd,
And thy lovely, fwelling creft,
With my bended stopper preft,
And the fweeteft blits of bliffes
Breathing from thy balmy kiffes;
Happy thrice and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men,

Who, when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns,

WHEN Placinda's beauties appear,
How enchanting then is her air!
Such a fine shape and fize,
Such lips, and teeth, and eyes!
So many pointed darts who can bear!
Then her temper, fo good, and fo fweet!
Such her carriage and elegant wit;
Whate'er fhe does or fays
We all in tranfports gaze,
Like young fquires in the opera-pit.
But to cut off all hopes of retreat,
There's Eliza to captivate;
The mighty Hercules

With two fuch foes as thefe

Must have look'd for a total defeat.

LOVE NO NOUN-SUÉSTANTIVE.

WHAT tho' my love has got no pelf,
She is a good fortune of herself,
With a vast stock of pow'rful charms;
Of ftature tall, and graceful mien,
Good fenfe withal, and temper ferene:

With a form fitted to blefs my arms.
Two dove-like eyes, two ivory rows,
And, like the eagle, rifing nofe;
And when her hand I think upon,
And fingers like the wax-work shown,
Oh! then my heart beats thick with alarms.

Thus inclination drives me to,
But prudence tells me 'twill never do.
Naked love will quickly catch cold;

THE ponderous cloud was black and low, And fail'd majestically flow,

Red lightning fcorch'd the ground;
Tremendous, now, the thunder rolls,
As if it would have riv'd the poles,

And torrents pour around.
No fhelter nigh, to shield my head,
Along the champaign fwift I fled,

Before the opening fkies;

Till from the weft a gale arofe,
Difpers'd the cloud, the welkin glows,
And vernal fweets arife.
Creation feem'd as new awake,
From every dingle, bufh, and brake,
E'en from the very fod;

The feather'd race their throats essay,
Who fail falute, in fongs moft gay,
The wonder-working God.

Afham'd, that thofe of leaft efteem
Should praife the Pow'r alone fupreme,
I crav'd to be forgiven:

Straight, like the little grateful throng,
I, in an unaffected fong,

Addrefs'd my voice to Heaven.

RETIREMENT.

Written by Mr. J WRENCH.

IMMORTAL powers, convey me where
No tumultuous throngs appear;
Far from flatt'ry, far from care,
Let me breathe the rural air.
Bear me to fome shady grove,
Bleft retreat of peace and love;
Where, fecure, the warbling choir
From the busy world retire.

Where nature's beauties deck the ground,
Thousand beauteous flowers abound;
Still, to make the scene more fair,
Let lovely Delia meet me there.

Delia's prefence will improve
The vernal beauty of the grove;
Give each flower a pleafing dye,
Brighter azure to the sky.

Venus, to complete my joy,
Hither fend thy sportive boy;

WHILE thefe clofe walls thy beauties hide,
Immur'd within this guarded grove,
On the clear ftream's oppofing fide
The mufe fhall wail my hopeless love.

My love which nothing can outvie,
Which never fhall a period know;
Ye breezes, tell her as ye fly;

Ye waters, bear it as ye flow.

And tho' (by adverfe friends confin'd)
The yielding fair I vainly crave;
O bring her murmurs, gentle wind,
Her image, ev'ry ebbing wave!
Yet, oh! ye winds, her fighs conceal;
Nor you, ye waves, reflect her face;
Left olus my paflion feel,

And Neptune fue for her embrace.

Small need ye fhou'd her accents bear,

Or to my view her form impart, Whofe voice dwells ever on my ear, Whofe image ever in my heart.

SONG 796.

THE COUNTRY WEDDING.

A LL you that e'er tafted of Swatfal-Hall beer, Or ever cry'd roaft-meat for having been there;

To crown your good chear, pray accept of a catch, Now Harry and Betty have ftruck up a match.

Derry down, down; down, derry down.

As things may fall out which nobody would guefs,

So it happens that Harry should fall in with Befs: May they prove to each other a mutual relief! To their plenty of carrots, I wish 'em much beef. Derry down, &c.

She had a great talent at roaft-meal and boil'd, And feldom it was that her pudding was spoil'd; Renown'd, too, for dunipling, and dripping-pan fop,

At handling a dish-clout, and twirling a mop. Derry down, &c.

To kitchen-fluff only her thoughts did afpire, Yet wit fhe'd enough to keep out of the fire; And tho' in fome things the were thort of the fox,

'Tis faid, fhe has twenty good pounds in her box. Derry down, &c.