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. THE Weftern fky was purpled o'er, And flocks reviving felt no more When from a hazel's artlefs bow'r, AIR. Let fops with fickle falfehoods range While weeping maids lament the changes But endless bleffings crown the day And ev'ry bleffing find it's way Far in the winding vale retir'd, This peerlefs bud I found, And fhad'wing rocks and woods confpir'd Should form a nymph fo fweet, 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, The ftream that faw our tender love, With fudden amazement I ftood, Faft rivetted down to the place; Ye gods! what luxuriance of beauty! I cry; Soft tranfports my fenfes invade; Young Damon ftepp'd up, with the fubftance be fled, And left me to kifs the dear fhade. THE COQUETTE RECLAIM D. Sung at VAUXHALL. THE ftory goes, That fifter Bet, Away fhe flies, leaves ev'ry fquire, While hearts like cherries bleed 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, 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, AIR. Tho' Cupid is vanquish'd to-day, She'll arm me as well as before. 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, O think, dear Julia, on thy charms, They, like the rofe, will fade; Thy beauty, like a fragrant flow'r, fe longest space is but an hour, Then hafte, dear Julia, hafte away Where joy and mirth reign all the day, 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. Or breath'd only to the air; Read what yours have written there. 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, Kifs thee, prefs thee, toy and play; 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, A 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 There's not a fingle swain But with hopes and fears, Shall another maiden fhine Tune thy pipe once again; Since thy dear defert To me thou art more gay, What tho' my fortune frown, 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; No jealoufy e'er fhall our bofoms inflame, For it we all lov't, there's enough for us all. 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 Cupid, with his golden hair, 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, 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 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, Juft too learn'd for a dunce, not too wife to 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, No fopp'ries then were ap'd from France; Ye facred few! who boaft the name, 'Tis yours to bid fair fcience fmile, To welcome commerce to our fhore; 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. |