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Each brook and purling rill, Shall on it's bubbling ftream Convey the virgin's name; And, as it rolls, in murmurs tell

The charms of beauteous Florimel.

The fvlvan gods, that dwell Amidst this facred grove, Shall wonder at my love; While ev'ry found confpires to tell

The charms of beauteous Florimel.

SONG 813.

Written by Mr. D. BEST.

Lambkins fportive all around,
Looking fweet fimplicity,
In their bofoms is not found
Th'innocence which dwells in thee.
See the ivy, how it twines

Round the oak-it's tendrils clue; Thus Melifia! were you mine,

My fond arms fhould circle you.The maiden fmil'd, no more delay'd, Gave her hand with joy and glee; Through the dell we fondly ftray'd, Conftant, happy, blithe, and free.

SONG 815.

WHEN shrubs did bloffom, fields were green, GREAT Jove, in merry mood, once faid,

And ev'ry thing was gay,

All nature reap'd the fruits of spring,
And hail'd the welcome May;
The little birds quite lively were,
They tun'd their downy throats,
The Tirk high-foaring in the air,
With chearful, pleafing notes;

The bleating sheep were heard around,
The lambs did skip and play,
In fportive innocence combin'd
To hail the welcome May;
When Nancy fair attended was
By her adoring fwain:

With fparkling eyes, and tender looks,
He told to her his pain.

He faid, that he could take no reft
Without he would relent.
With blushes that adorn'd her cheek,
The fair-one gave confent.
To Hymen's altar they repair'd,
Where love did join their hands;
And now they live fecure from harm,
In wedlock's happy bands.

SONG 814.

HASTE! fweet nymph, the eve invites,
Jocund let us tread the dale;
There to blend in fweet delights,
The foft carefs and tender tale.
Free from guile, devoid of art,

Are thy fhepherd's fimple ways;
My fond lips fhall speak my heart,
While I tell Meliffa's praife.
Hark! the bird on yonder fpray,
Chanting out it's warbling notes;
Pouring in fweet melody,

Mufic from it's little throat. It's wild lays are unconfin'd,

Ev'ry ftranger drinks the ftream;
Thou shalt all poffefs my mind,

Be thy Corin's only theme.
See! the flock, thy fhepherd's ftore,
All in fnowy fleeces dreft,
Let me wash them more and more,
Ne'er can match thy virgin breaft.

Enthron'd on high Olympus fitting,
He'd form one lovely mortal mud,
With all the female graces nitting:
His fpoufe, ill-natur'd June, wept,

While Venus, lovely ceature, laugh'd;

But Jove his promife fairly kept,
And nam'd the fair-one, Nancy Taft.

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YOUNG Polly was the blitheft maid
That tript it o'er the plain;

But now to cruel grief's betray'd,
By Damon's cold difdain.
And till of late, was always free
To fing the charms of liberty.
Each love-taught shepherd strove to tell
His paffion in the glade,
And vow'd her beauty did excel
Bright Venus, fairest maid.
But Polly ftill continu'd free
To fing the charms of liberty.

Till Damon, with his fieecy care,
By chance pafs'd by that way;
She faw the lov'd-Ah! haplefs fair,
No longer is the gay;

Nor can fhe boaft of being free
To fing the charms of liberty.
For now, dejected and forlorn,

The nymph is left to rove;
With Philomel, at eve and morn,
To moan her hopeless love.
And Polly, now, no longer free,
Laments the lofs of liberty.

SONG 817.

Written by W. C

LET coxcombs boast of painted belles,
Whofe cheeks with roses vie ;
Their pleating bloom will foon be o'er,
Will wither, pine, and die.

Yet, ere that rofy feafon's gone,

Or we time's patience try; Ye powers divine, a lover hear, He fues for Betfey Guy.

To win this fair, this fav'rite maid,
I'll each endearment try:
Say, will a faithful heart enchant
My lovely Betfey Guy?

As oft with her I cross the mead,
See, fee! (the virgins cry)
How happy youthful Colin feems,
Since bleft with Betsey Guy.

The fhepherds ali admire the maid,
The nymphs to please her try;
Afk for the pride of Chelmer's banks,
They point to Betsey Guy.

Matilda's Polydore was bleft;
Yet not fo bleft as 1,

When walking round yon flow'ry mead
With pretty Betsey Guy.

Let kings enjoy that pomp and ftate For which vain mortals figh; Content I'd in a defert live

With charming Betfey Guy.

No other blifs on earth I ask,

With her I'd live and die;

Ye gods! take all your favours back, Or give me Betley Guy.

SONG 818.

THE PLAINTIVE SWAIN.

To the Memory of Mr. JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

Written by Mr. HAWKINS.

HE faid-on the banks, by the ftream,

He had pip'd for the thepherds too long;.

But oh! how delightful his theme,

For innocence brighten'd his fong: Then how could he wish to rehearse

Such leffons fo lofty and wide? When Phillis was fond of his verfe,

And nature fat down by his fide?

Ah! Colin, how cou'd you mistake

Till Pan bid you ftick to your ftrain? Could you leave the white fwans on the lake, Or quit the delights of the plain? Oh! no, honest Colin, you found No flame like your Phillis's praife; And poets came creeping around,

To liften, and envy your lays.

But vain were their efforts to try

To copy thy foft-foothing ftrains;
Their skill they were wont to deny,
As a wretched reward for their pains:
Yes, Colin, thy mufic was fweet,
With melody glided along;
While primrofes bloom'd at thy feet,

And fhepherds ftood by in a throng.

'The nymphs, too, came flocking the while, From their cots where they dwelt in the dale! And each of them feemed to smile

At the joys they receiv'd from the tale ;

But now you have bid them adieu! Death has feiz'd you a victim away; While in forrow they languish for you, And weep where foever they ftray.

SONG 819.

Written by Mr. NICHOLLS. LOVELY Maria, fkilful maid, Whene'er you touch the tuneful chords, To fpeak the rapture that's convey'd, Is not within the force of words.

Whene'er you turn Admetus o'er,

And tune your Handel's Spera fi; We think on worldly things no more, Our thoughts are fixt above the sky. Nor do you charm our race alone,

You tempt (at hand) the gentle dove;
Who fits attentive to each tone,

Then flies, and fills his cote with love.
The furly cur that keeps thy door,
When you effay thofe pow'rs fo sweet,
Bays at the paffing clown no more,
But fawns and frolicks at his feet.

Thus, like Cecilia, facred fair,
And Orpheus, mighty with the lute,
You ease the human foul of care,

And melt the bofom of the brute.

Go on, dear maid, tune Handel's ftrains; Since fuch foft charms around thee wait; To turn our thoughts from these low plains, And fit us for a better ftate.

SONG 820.

A WELCH LOVE-SONG.

SOME fing Molly Mogg of the Rofe,
And call her the Oakingham Pelle;
Whilst others do ferfes compofe

On peautiful Molly Lepelle.

Put of all the young firgins so fair,

Which Pritain's crete monarchy owns;

In peauty there's none to compare

With hur charming tear Gwinifrid Shones.

Unenviet the fplentit contition

Of princes that fit upon thrones:

The higheft of all hur ampition

Ifs the lofe of fair Gwinifrid Shones.

Pold mortals the clobe will fearch ofer
For cold and for tiamond ftones;
Put hur can more treafure tifcofer
In peautiful Gwinifrid Shones.

From the piggest crete mountain in Pritain
Hur would fenture the preaking hur pones,
So that the foft lap hur might fit on
Of peautiful Gwinifrid Shones.

Not the nightingale's pitiful note

Can express how poor Shenkin bemoans His fate, when in places remote

Hur is abfent from Gwinifrid Shones.

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Hur lofe ifs than honey far sweeter,

And hur is no Shenkin ap drones; Put hur would lapour in profe and in metre, To praise hur tear Gwinifrid Shones. As the harp of Saint Tavit furpaffes The pagpipes poor tweetles and crones; So Lepelle, Molly Mogg, and all laffes, Are excell'd by hur Gwinifrid Shones.

SONG 821.

DESPAIR.

Written by Mr. MAYOR. WHY fhines the moon with filver ray, Amid her starry fplendors gay!

Why trills the nightingale her note,
And ftrains her fweet mellifluous throat!
Why breathes the incenfe of the grove,
On me, a flave to care and love!

Now fnowy bloffoms clothe the year,
In verdant veure meads appear;
Favonian gales, and tepid how'rs,
Revive the gaudy, fmiling flow'rs;
All nature wantons in her bleom,
While I, alone, bewail my doom.
Ye deeply-piercing frofts return,
And freeze each Naïad in her urn;
The tender bloffoms tear away,
Deform the fields, unleaf the fpray;
And O! if able, chill this flame,

That burns my heart, and mars my frame;
Root out the feeds of am'rous fire,
And quench both fear and fond desire.

But ah in vain I beg your aid,
My heart your rigour can't pervade;
Like Hecla, 'midst eternal fnows,
With unextinguish'd heat it glows.
What can I pray! where turn my eyes!
Ye howling winds infuriate rife!
With tenfold rage impetuous fweep
The furrow'd bofom of the deep;
Let fpiry trees from land be torn,
And on your winged furges borne;
That in the aggravated roar,
My fatal lofs I may deplore;
Unheeded blend my frantic voice,
With gen'ral fhrieks, and hideous noife.

SONG 822.

COME, my faireft, learn of me,

Learn to give and take the blifs; Come, my love, here's none but we; I'll inftru&t thee how to kifs. Why turn from me that dear face? Why that blush, and downcat eye? Come, come, meet my fond embrace, And the mutual rapture try. Throw thy lovely twining arms Round my neck, or round my waist; And whilft I devour thy charms, Let me ciufely be embrac'd:

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Written by the EARL of DORSET.
AT noon, on a fultry fummer's day,
The brighter lady of the May,
Young Chloris, innocent and gay,
Sat knotting in a shade.

Each flender finger play'd it's part
With fuch activity and art,

As would inflame a youthful heart,
And warm the most decay'd.

Her fav'rite fwain by chance came by,
He faw no anger in her eye;
Yet when the bashful boy drew nigh,
She would have feem'd afraid.

She let her ivory needle fall,
And hurl'd away the twisted ball:
But ftraight gave Strephon fuch a call,
As wou'd have rais'd the dead.
Dear gentle youth, is't none but thee?
With innocence I dare be free:
By fo much truth and modefty

No nymph was e'er betray'd.
Come, lean thy head upon my lap,
While thy fmooth cheeks I ftroke and clap,
Thou may'ft fecurely take a nap:

Which he, poor fool! obey'd.

She faw him yawn, and heard him fnore;
And found him faft asleep all o'er:
She figh'd, and could endure no more,
But farting up, she faid,

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WHY, cruel creature, why fo bent To vex a tender heart?

To gold and title you relent,

Love throws in vain his dart.

Let glitt'ring fools in courts be great,
For pay let armies move;
Beauty thou'd have no other bait,
But gentle vows and love.

If on thofe endless charms you lay
The value that's their due;
Kings are themselves too poor to pay,
A thousand worlds too few.

But if a paffion without vice,

Without disguise or art, Ah, Celia! if true love's your price, Behold it in my heart.

SONG 826.

DAMON AND DELIA; A PASTORAL.
Written by Mr. D. BEST.
DAMON.

HOW bright in the morn are Aurora's gay beams,

When just peeping behind yonder hil!! How tranfient the luftre, how bright to behold! But my Delia furpaffes them ftill.

DELIA.

What's beauty, how vain, the mere tints of a skin !

And the maid yet more vain, to her cost, That's proud of the favour ordain'd her by fate, When virtue, dear virtue, is loft!

How artful each fwain the weak maid to betray,

Who with patience will hear the foft tale! To diffemble and flatter by nature they're taught, And the paffion will ever prevail.

DAMON.

And does my dear Delia fufpect my fond heart,
And rail at the faults of my fex!
'Tis all the mere tale of fome artful old maid,
Who has ftrove my fair maid to perplex.

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But foon as I found, by the pride of her heart, That her bloom and her beauty were govern'd by art,

I then took my leave of this prodigal dame, And ftrove all I could to extinguish the flame; But still on my thoughts her fweet converse remains:

So love is a burden, and heavy the chains.

Then hear, O ye youths, and this maxim purfue;

Let beauty ne'er fway you, nor pride e'er fubdue:

But place your affections where virtue remains; Then love will be pleasing, and eafy the chains.

SONG 828.

Written by Mr. LEMOINE.

THE fprightly eye, the rofy cheek,
The dimpled chin, and look fo meek,
A nameless grace and air;
The ruby lip in fweetnefs dreft,
The foftly-fwelling angel breast;
All these adorn my fair.

See what unnumber'd beauties rove
Around each feature of my love,'

And fire my rapt'rous foul!

Ten thousand fweets her looks difclofe,
At ev'ry glance my bofom glows,

And yields to love's control.

Juft heav'ns! why gave ye charms like these,
With ev'ry grateful art to pleafe,

To one whom rigid fate,
Permits me not to tell my pain,
But makes me fear the cold difdain
Of her I wish my mate.

Curfe on the fordid thirst of gold!
When tend'reft paffions all are fold

To win the world's applaufe;
When, for defire, and love, and joy,
Low int'reft shall it's pow'rs employ,
And gain th' ignoble cause.

SONG 829.

WHILE harmony's echo refounds

In the vallies where innocence reigns, Where health and contentment abounds, And the birds charm the hills and the plains; How delightful the fweets that are known! When retirement it's pleasures difplays, Ev'ry bleffing below, we must own,

Is center'd in that happy way.

Tho' mufic the favage may charm,

And difperfe dreary thoughts from the mind; 'Tis retirement alone can disarm,

And reftrain the grand foe of mankind; For contentment thofe joys will refine

Which peace and retirement doth bring,

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SONG 831.

A GRATEFUL EFFUSION.

Written by Mr. NICHOLLS.

WHEN I behold, at vernal tide,

The halefome herbage fpring, Note how the tree's with leaves fupply'd, My fancy takes the wing;

Grateful I meet the April fhower;
Chearful, at rifing day,

I trace the lawns, and kifs the flowers
Which make the feafon gay.

Sweet lark, (I cry) fhall you, un taught,
Praife with thy feeble voice;
And I, a creature blefs'd with thought,
Be backward to rejoice!

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