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She covets no praife, nor with envy is ftung, She always is pleas'd, and is pleafing and young. Then, Chloe, I fudden must make my retreat, Thy rofe is too blooming, too fhort-liv'd and Tweet;

But Jenny, thy myrtle is lafting and green, And all the year thro' thou the fame ftill art feen.

SONG 875..

NANCY OF THE VALE.
RECITATIVE.

THE Weftern fky was purpled o'er,
With every plealing ray,

And flocks reviving felt no more
The fultry heats of day;

When from a hazel's artlefs bow'r,
Soft warbled Strephon's tongue;
He bleft the day, he bleft the hour,
While Nancy's charms he fung.

AIR.

Let fops with fickle falfehoods range
The paths of wanton love,

While weeping maids lament the changes
And fadden ev'ry grove;

But endless bleffings crown the day
I faw fair Efham's dale,

And ev'ry bleffing find it's way
To Nancy of the Vale.

Far in the winding vale retir'd,

This peerlefs bud I found,

And fhad'wing rocks and woods confpir'd
To fence her beauties round:
That nature in fo lone a dell

Should form a nymph fo fweet,
Or fortune to her fecret cell,

Conduct my wand'ring feet! Gay lordlings fought her for their bride, But the would ne'er incline; Prove to your equals true, the cry'd,

As I will prove to mine;

'Tis Strephon on the mountain's brow

Has won my right good will;. To him I gave my plighted vow,

With him I'll climb the hill.

Struck with her charms and gentle truth, I clafp'd the conftant fair;

To her alone I gave my youth,

And vow'd my future care.

And when this vow fhall faithlefs prove,
Or I thofe charms forego;

The ftream that faw our tender love,
That fream fhall ceafe to flow.

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With fudden amazement I ftood,

Faft rivetted down to the place;
Her delicate shape, eafy motion I view'd,
And wand'red o'er every grace.

Ye gods! what luxuriance of beauty! I cry;
What raptures muft dwell in her arms!
On her lips I could feaft, on her breast I could
O! Fanny how sweet are thy charms! [die;
Whilft thus in idea my paffion I fed,

Soft tranfports my fenfes invade; Young Damon ftepp'd up, with the fubftance be fled,

And left me to kifs the dear fhade.

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THE COQUETTE RECLAIM D.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

THE ftory goes, That fifter Bet,
Refolv'd to play the field coquette,
Amongst the ruftic breed:
But tir'd of flirting on the green,
She cry'd, Who'a live, to live unfeen!
Not I, not I, indeed.

Away fhe flies, leaves ev'ry fquire,
To tell his tale by winter fire,

While hearts like cherries bleed
But what's all this to 1? fays the;
A rural life won't do for me,

It won't, it won't, indeed. Give me the Park to flaunt about, The play-houfe, Ranelagh, and route.But how did this fucceed? Admir'd by lords, the loft her fame, On ev'ry window glar'd her name,

'Tis true, 'tis true, indeed.

At length fhe fought the flighted plain,
Grew a good girl, carefs'd her fwain,
And foon they were agreed:
Will you not love me now? he says.
O yes! the longest hights and days,
I'll love, I'll love, indeed.

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Now fhall we fafely trace the plain,

And haunt the river, lawn and grove; His arrows broke, his pow'r is vain; You now may fafely laugh at love.

RECITATIVE.

When now, too late, the god awoke,
Saw Dian and her fav'rites by;
The fatal mischief thus he spoke,
Whilft malice fparkled from each eye.

AIR.

Tho' Cupid is vanquish'd to-day,
Believe not my empire is o'er,
To Venus I'll hie me away,

She'll arm me as well as before.
Oh, Dian! what nymph of the train
Is fate when I aim the fure dart!
I'm mad with the wrongs I fuftain,
Then, goddefs, take care of thy heart.

SONG 879.

THE ROSE.

Written by Mr. LEMOINE. WHAT fate attends the blushing rose, How fwift it's beauty flies!

Sweet fcents at morn it does difciofe,
Ere eve it fades and dies.

O think, dear Julia, on thy charms,

They, like the rofe, will fade;
Then hafte, enchantress, to my arms,
Thou fweet and lovely maid.

Thy beauty, like a fragrant flow'r,
Juft emblem of the rofe;

fe longest space is but an hour,
Ere all it's iplendors clofe.

Then hafte, dear Julia, hafte away
Unto that happy land,

Where joy and mirth reign all the day,
And Cupid bears command,

SONG 880.

Sung in Twelftb - Night. HOW imperfect is expreffion, Some emotions to impart ! When we mean a foft confeflion, And yet feek to hide the heart! When our bofoms, all complying,

With delicious tumults fwell,

And beat what broken, falt'ring, dying Language would, but cannot tell.

Deep confufion's rofy terror,

Quite expreffive paints my cheek.
Afk no more-behold your error;
Blushes eloquently speak.
What tho' filent is my anguish,

Or breath'd only to the air;
Mark my eyes, and as they languish,

Read what yours have written there.

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Next Hodge of the vale all his flame did impart, Who knew nothing more than a plough or a cart;

With aukward addrefs he made a ftrange fufs, Turn'd his hat o'er his thumb, and begg'd for a bufs:

The lout fetch'd a figh, and cry'd, 'Deed Doll 'tis true,

Ife love the moft woundely, i'faith, girl, I do; But the flapp'd his fool's chaps and bid him withdraw,

So fent him away, while fhe loud laugh'd ha! ha!

The next was a fellow fo fmart and fo fpruce, Who caper'd and fung, 'mong the girls play'd

the deuce,

And poor Doll thought to ferve as the reft,
But the was too fharp, and of him made a jest.
Quoth Doll, I'll ne'er wed till I meet with aman!
Much lefs let a fop may affections trapan;
And faid, fuch a thing the before never faw,
But hop'd he'd excufe it, and laugh'd out
ha! ha!

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Kifs thee, prefs thee, toy and play;
All the happy live-long day:
Dearest Kitty, kind and fair,
Tell me when, and tell we where ?
All the happy day, 'tis true,
Blefs'd but only when with you;
Nightly Stephon fighs alone,
Sighs till Hymen makes us one.
Tell me, then, and eate my pain,
Tell the fond and faithful twain,
When the priest fhall kindly join
Kitty's trembling hand to mine?
Dearest Kitty kind and fair,
Tell me when?—I care not where.

SONG 885.

ANACREONTIC.

Sung at VAUXHALL/

You know that our ancient philofophers held, There is nothing in beauty, or honour, or gold;

That blifs in externals no mortal can find; And in truth, my good friends, I am quite of their mind.

What makes a man happy, I never can doubt; 'Tis fomething within him, and nothing with

out;

This fomething, they faid, was the fource of content,

And whate'er they call'd it, 'twas wine that they meant.

Without us, indeed, it is not worth a pin; But, ye gods! how divine if we get it within; 'Tis then, of all bleflings, the flourishing root, And in fpite of the world, we can gather the fruit.

When the bottle is wanting, the foul is depreft, And beauty can kindle no flame in the breaft; But with wine at our hearts we are always in love,

We can fing like the linnet, and bill like the dove.

The richest and greatest are poor and repine, If with gold and with grandeur you give them no wine;

But wine to the peafant or flave if you bring, He's as rich as a Jew, and as great as a king. With wine at my heart I am happy and free, Externals without are nothing to me; Come fill, and this truth from a bumper you'll know,

That wine is, of bleffings, the bleffing below,

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SONG 885.

Written by Mr. Rowɛ.

S on a fummer's day,

In the green-wood shade I lay; The maid that I lov'd,

As her fancy mov'd,

Came walking forth that way.

And as the paffed by,

With a fcornful giance of her eye; What a shame, quoth the, For a fwain muft it be,

Like a lazy loon for to lie!

And doft then nothing heed
What Pan, our god, has decreed;
What a prize to-day
Shall be given away
To the fweetest shepherd's reed?

There's not a fingle swain
Of all this fruitful plain,

But with hopes and fears,
Now buffly prepares
The bonny boon to gain.

Shall another maiden fhine
In brighter array than thine?
Up, up, dull twain,

Tune thy pipe once again;
And make the garland mine,
Alas! my love, I cried,
What avails this courtly pride?

Since thy dear defert
Is written in my heart,
What is all the world befide?

To me thou art more gay,
In this homely ruffet grey,
Than the nymphs of our green,
So trim and fo theen,
Or the brightest queen of May.

What tho' my fortune frown,
And deny thee a filken gown
My own dear maid,

Be content with this fhade, And a fhepherd all thy own.

SONG 886.

LET milkfers, in love, whine and cant if they will,

While merrily we of good wine take our fill;
A frown often fits on the brow of your lafs,
But nought but a fmile's ever feen in a glass.
Derry down, down, down derry down.

No jealoufy e'er fhall our bofoms inflame,
Our mitreis is common, and claret her name;
There's for wine no occafion to quarrel or
brawl,

For it we all lov't, there's enough for us all.
Derry down, &c.

Then be merry, companions, the bottle push round,

No mistress like this under heaven is found: If there's not enough here, friends, you foon fhall have more,

For where this bottle came from there's plenty

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Cupid, with his golden hair,
Ever young, and ever fair;
Bacchus, fprightly god and gay;
Venus, queen of love and May:
These our choir fhall join and bring
With them everlasting (pring;
Beauty, mirth, and wine, and love,
Ev'ry forrow fhali remove.

SONG 888.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

YE beaux and ye belles pray attend to my fong, 'Tis new, I affure you, and will not be long. From the camp I'm arriv'd, that fcene of delight,

Where they romp, fing, and dance, all the day and the night.

To the camp then all repair,
Gallant fwains, and blooming fair;
Gaily laughing, let us tramp

To the merry, merry camp.

Well, who could have thought that war was fo charming!

Nothing there's in it that can be alarming; Nor Margate, nor Bath, nor the fam'd Tunbridge Wells,

Like the camp all our forrow fo fweetly difpels. To the camp, &c.

With parfons, fquires, clowns, there is fuch intrusion,

The camp is a type, fure, of Babel's confufion; There hautboys and trumpets, brifk fifes and balloons,

Both charm you and fun you with fifty old

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The fquire, with akifs, bawls to cover; swear zounds,

But he fancies me more than his kennel of hounds;

The lawyer his fuit he with modefty prefs'd, That for him I'd decree, and eject all the rest. While the beau talk'd of nothing but fashion and clothes.

Can you blame me, ye fair, if I like none of thofe?

Some friends would perfuade me to marry a fool,
For women, they fay, are defirous to rule;
But as that is a pow'r which I never will ufe,
I'll tell you what fort of a man I would chufe;
A youth with fome fenfe and good nature com-
bin'd,

Juft too learn'd for a dunce, not too wife to
be kind;

Where I'm wrong, juft with fpirit to gently oppofe :

Why, I needs muft confefs, I fhould like one of one of thofe.

SONG 890.

ODE IN HONOUR OF THE ANTIGALLICANS.

AS liberty, from out the sky,

Held o'er our ile her feepter'd hand; Griev'd was the goddess, breath'd a figh,

And thus bespoke the finking land: Shame, inglorious race! grow wife, And Antigallicans ariie.

In ancient time, your fires renown'd,

With honeft heart, and furly face,
Fought well their battles, gain'd their ground,
And fcorn'd the puny Gallic race:
Shame, inglorious fons! grow wife,
And Antigallicans arife.

No fopp'ries then were ap'd from France;
Their language was as plain as dress:
Think on their honours, Oh! advance,
And Heav'n fhall your endeavours blefs!
Hence victorious reign, and wife,
And Antigallicans arife.

Ye facred few! who boaft the name,
Whose bofoms burn with patriot fire!
Hail, friends of freedom! dear to fame,
And grac'd with all that gods admire.
You're tranfcendent great and wife,
Who Antigallicans arife.

'Tis yours to bid fair fcience fmile,

To welcome commerce to our fhore;
Teach arts to flourish round the ille,
And Britain to itself reftore:
You're tranfcendent great and wife,
Who Antigallicans arife.

But I needs muft confefs, that I like none of Again fhou'd curft rebellion glow, thofe.

I'm a bale of rich goods, fo the citizen fwore, And look ten per cent. better each day than before;

Or bold invafion fpread it's wing, Then arm'd revengeful, on the foe, To fave their country and their king, Ali-courageous, gen'rous, wife, The Antigallicans shall rife.

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