Who would not leave each blooming sweet, Were mine the far-fam'd Paphian isle, Or Peru's filver fhore; The climes where flow'rs eternal fmile, Unknown to winter hoar; SONG 983. COLIN, one day, in angry mood, Becaufe Myrtilla, whom he lov'd, Laugh'd at his flame, and mock'd his fighs, Thus fervently to Jove applies: Oh, Jove! thou fov'reign god above, Jove kindly heard, (he pray'd not twice;) But now my paffion's o'er, O! Jove, SONG 984. Sung at VAUXHALL YOUNG Daphne was the prettiest maid 'Twas cruelty to me. No fwain that e'er the nymph ador'd Was fonder; or was younger; Yet, when her pity I implor'd, 'Twas, Stay a little longer.. It chanc'd, I met the blooming fair, I clafp'd the maid; it wak'd her pride 1 Then, kneeling at her feet, I fwore And that my heart, which beat for her, Confent flood fpeaking in the eye Yet Daphne utter'd with a figh, The conflict in her foul I faw, Oh! come, (I cry'd) let Hymen's law Give fanction to love's fire. Ye lovers, guess how great my joys! Cou'd rapture well prove ftronger? When virtue fpoke in Daphne's voice, You now fhall ftay no longer. SONG 985. THE CONTEST. Written by Mr. LEMOINE, I Say, if Paris was a beau, Three fair-ones begg'd him to decide He might have fouth'd each fair-one's pride, To one he might have given shape, And piercing eyes to t'other; And Juno without passion, Had one alone obtain'd the bays, And wit's bright prize have borne; The other two throughout their days, The willow must have worn. SONG 936. AN ADDRESS TO THE LADIES. Sung at RANELAGH. YE belles, and ye flirts, and ye pert little things, Who trip in this frolickfome round, Pray tell me from whence this indecency springs, The lexes at once to confound? What means the cock'd hat, and the masculine air, With each motion defign'd to perplex? Bright eyes were intended to languish, not stare, And foftnefs the teft of your fex-dear girls, And foftness the teft of your fex. The girl who on beauty depends for fupport, But you, on whom fortune indulgently fmiles, SONG 988. HIGHAM HILL; A PASTORAL. Written by Mr. NICHOLLS. ON Higham Hill, when profpects fair Salute the wand'ring fight, I love to breathe the morning air, To trace the broom-clad hill; From dingle, bush, or dale, As down the flope I traverse then, The wonders Heav'n prefents to men, His mind, howe'er impervious grown I think, with me, he'd quickly own When bus'nefs dulls the mental pow'rs, To Higham Hill I run, And with the breath of op'ning flow'rs I hail the rifing fun. Ah! how my foul revives again, My fancy takes her flight, Let the proud thing of human race, There's treafur'd peace and health. With all that's blissful fraught! The reft is but an empty dream, Not worth a poet's thought: May he, who ftrives for more than this, Still turn a barren foil, And never meet a ray of bliss To mitigate his toil! Bear me from hence, fome rural god, To Higham Hill again; The choiceft bloom that decks the fod To breathe the blue-bell's (weet, Or ftray by hawthorn hedge, or rove Till theep are pent in fold, If, when I ftray to Higham Hill, They greet me with a right good will, 1 fpend with them the day, And make the vices of a court The burden of my lay. And oft I've fang the tender ftrain, Their loves to me the fhepherds tell, What fwains have faithlefs prov'd, What maids for beauty bear the belle, And who are least belov'd: Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. IN the barn the tenant cock, Close to partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows (the thepherd's clock !) And proclaims the morning nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Shadows nurs'd by night retire; And the peeping fun-beam, now, Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forfakes the thorn, Plaintive where the prates at night; And the lark, to meet the morn, Soars beyond the fhepherd's fight. From the clay-built cottage ridge, See the chatt'ring fwallow fpring+ Darting through the one-areh'd bridge, Quick the dips her dappled wing. Trickling through the crevic'd rock, See the filver fream diftil Sweet refreshment for the flock, Ripening o'er the banks of Tweed, AS SONG 991. EVENING. Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. the plowman homeward goes, Plodding to the hamlet bound, Giant-like his shadow grows, Lengthen'd o'er the level ground. The fteer along the meadow ftrays Now the furrow'd task is done; And the village windows blaze, Glift'ning to the setting fun. Mark him from behind the hill, Streak the purple painted sky: Can the pencil's mimic skill Copy the refulgent dye? Where the rifing foreft fpreads Round the time-decaying dome; To their high-built airy beds, See the rooks returning home! As the lark with vary'd tune, Carols to the ev'ning loud, Mark the mild, refplendent moon, Breaking through a parted cloud! Tripping through the filken grafs, O'er the path-divided dale, See the rofe-complexion'd lafs With the well pois'd milking pail. Linnets with unnumber'd sores, And the cuckow bird with two, Tuning fweet their mellow throats, Bid the fetting fun adieu. Each friend in vain (while you dis¿ain) But all their arts to cure my smarts, Inefficacious prove; My mind's not free from flavery, His main delight is ftories bright, O! favage man, made to trepan, And call love's pains a jeft; O grant that I might change the figh, For joys within my breaft! I'd then be free from fuch as thee, I'd spend in mirth each hour; My virgin heart should know no smart, But laugh at all thy pow't. I'll envy not the fair-one's lot, To whom young Edwin roves; But wish to fee them ever be The portraits of fond doves. For fweet content was never meant Yet when I die, my foul fhall fly SONG 993. HEBE; A PASTORAL, To the Memory of Mifs SANDERS. Written by Mr. HAWKINS. COME, virgins, who dwell on the plain, And weep with a fhepherd fincere; Come liften, and learn from my train, Since Hebe no longer is near: For the was fo modest and meek, What mildness with her could compare! Her mind was a stranger to ftrife, Religion the lov'd as her life, For none were more pious than fhe: But ah! the dear damfel is gone, And the nymphs and the swains are forlorn, To virtue, to honour, and truth; Till death with his fcythe came along, For no one e'er faw her diftrefs'd; She gently funk into rest, Then, virgins, who frolic and play And weep for the lofs of the fair! SONG 994. Written by Mr. J. R. HOW happy loves the youth! (His mistress ever kind) Whofe paffion's told with truth, And innocent his mind. Whose bofom, free from guile, Need no falfe arts to screen; Nor no deceiving mile To hide the fiend within. Whose heart, the maiden's friend, Where more he could obtain, It loveth to defend, And fcorns the cruel gain! Who yieldeth him her heart, The object of his joys; And leifure at the fultry noon On flow'ry carpet flings him down, And found thy praifes thro' the vale, The murm'ting rills fhall fpread it round, SONG 996. THE VIGIL OF MAY. Written by Mr. NICHOLLS. NOW fweet is the bloom on the spray, How foft from the west blows the gale! Now, charm'd with the nightingale's lay, The villagers hafte to the dale! Bright Dian, who filver'ft the lawn, I'm come with the fhepherds to stray, Till your beauty's eclips'd by the dawn, A tribute that's due to the May. May no wat'ry cloud hide thy face, For Phebe will join the gay throng; Hark! the tabor, and Corydon's fong! We'd haften to welcome the May. She promis'd, ere this, to be here; Thefe pleafures but ficken and pain, Till the mate of my bofom is near. When I but a moment delay'd, She frown'd, and upbraided her fwain; Sure fomething's befall'n the dear maid! I die till I fee her again. Ah! how my poor befom's alarm'd! But the fair-one, who trips yonder ftile, Has now ev'ry terror difarm'd; 'Tis Phebe!-she comes with a fmile. But why do I keep from her arms! I'll fly and falute her with glee; SONG 997. I'LL to fome fhady, cool retreat, Is center'd in my Colin. Were I poffefs'd of monarchs lands, With him, beneath a myrtle feat, With any one but Colin. So long as Saran's glafs fhall run, So long shall I love Colin; SONG 99S. Written by Mr. Mavos. COME, dearest Nancy! bless my eyes, And ftop the flowing tear; In you alone the magic lies, To animate and chear. Not half fo fweet the flow'rs difplay Not all the bloom of fmiling May Where'er you tread, the warblers sweet When you forlake these plains; Come, dearest Nancy! come, and stay! For you I figh, and waste my prime; SONG 999. THE TEAR. Written by the late Queen of DENMARK. HOW prone the bofom is to figh! How prone to weep, the human eye! When ev'ry parting pang is o'er, |