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Who would not leave each blooming sweet,
And ev'ry bleft abode;
To lie a fuppliant at her feet,
And figh for lovely Broad.

Were mine the far-fam'd Paphian isle,

Or Peru's filver fhore;

The climes where flow'rs eternal fmile,

Unknown to winter hoar;
I'd quit them all, and only pray
To love's all-potent god,
That I might spend my latest day
With beauty's fav'rite Broad.

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,
Who know'ft the pains of flighted love;
Hear a poor mortal's pray'r, and take
All the whole fex for pity's fake;
And then we men might live at eafe,
Secure of happiness and peace.

Jove kindly heard, (he pray'd not twice;)
And took the women in a trice.""
When Colin faw the coaft was clear,
(For not a fingle girl was near;)
Reflecting with himself, 'Twas kind,
Says he, to gratify my mind;

But now my paffion's o'er, O! Jove,
Give me Myrtilla back, my love;
Let me with her on earth be bleft,
And keep in heaven all the reft.

SONG 984.

Sung at VAUXHALL

YOUNG Daphne was the prettiest maid
The eyes of love cou'd fee;
And but one fault the charmer had,

'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,
One May morn in the grove;
When Cupid whifper'd in my ear,
Now, now's the time for love,

I clafp'd the maid; it wak'd her pride 1
What did I mean to wrong her!
Not fo, my gentle dear, I cry'd;
But love will stay no longer.

Then, kneeling at her feet, I fwore
How much I lov'd, how well;

And that my heart, which beat for her,
With her fhould ever dwell,

Confent flood fpeaking in the eye
Of all my care's prolonger;

Yet Daphne utter'd with a figh,
Oh! ftay a little longer.

The conflict in her foul I faw,
'Twixt virtue and defire:

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,
Yet he was not polite;
For he on Ida's top did show
To two bright nymphs a flight.

Three fair-ones begg'd him to decide
Which was the greatest beauty;

He might have fouth'd each fair-one's pride,
And yet have done his duty.

To one he might have given shape,

And piercing eyes to t'other;
Then had he made a good efcape,
And fav'd a mighty pother.
Minerva then had dwelt in peace,

And Juno without passion,
Had caus'd a ten years war to cease,
And fav'd old Priam's nation.

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,
May call ev'ry art to her aid;
The bofom difplay'd, and the petticoat short,
Are famples the gives of her trade:

But you, on whom fortune indulgently fmiles,
And whom pride has preferv'd from the fnare,
Shou'd lily attack us, with coyness and wiles,
Not with open and infolent air-dear girls
Not with open and infolent air.

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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,
And fleep the fummer night.
There, how charming 'tis to wake
While filver Cynthia reigns!
Whilft Philomel, from flow'ry brake,
Pours forth her love-lorn ftrains.
Then, oh! then, I love to rife,

To trace the broom-clad hill;
Whilst thro' the ftillness foftly fies
The whispers of the rill.
Nor elfe is heard to interpofe

From dingle, bush, or dale,
Save Thames, foft kiffing as he goes
The rush-embroider'd vale.

As down the flope I traverse then,
I fcan with curious eye

The wonders Heav'n prefents to men,
And with the atheist by:

His mind, howe'er impervious grown
To theologic lore,

I think, with me, he'd quickly own
A fupernatral pow'r.

When bus'nefs dulls the mental pow'rs,

To Higham Hill I run,

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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,
My mufe refumes her wonted strain,
And fings with new delight!,

Let the proud thing of human race,
Who, like a fummer fly,
Scuds to-day from place to place,
And muft to-morrow die;
Let him to greatnefs bend the knee,
Or heap up fordid wealth;
The top of Higham Hill for me!

There's treafur'd peace and health.
Peace and health! O, facred theme,

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
I'll featter round thy fane.
For, O! I long, at fervid noon,

To breathe the blue-bell's (weet,
To fit and hear the throftle's tune,
Where spreading hazels meet;

Or ftray by hawthorn hedge, or rove
Adown the pathless way,
When ev'ry fong-bird chears his love
Beneath the bloom of May.
Till weary herds retire to reft,

Till theep are pent in fold,
Till Phabus leaves the ruddy weft
With tints of burnish'd gold.

If, when I ftray to Higham Hill,
I meet the ruftic throng,

They greet me with a right good will,
And note me for my fong:
For oft at May, in rural sport,

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,
The while the village maid
Was leaning on her fav'rite fwain,
And all her heart betray'd.
The lofty theme I ne'er effay'd,
(Let Laureats fuch rehearse)
But wherefoe'er my fancy stray'd,
A moral mark'd my verse.

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:

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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,
When 'tis fun-drove from the hill.
Plowmen for the promis'd corn,

Ripening o'er the banks of Tweed,
Anxious hear the huntfman's horn,
Soften'd by the shepherd's reed.
Sweet, oh! fweet, the warbling throng,
On the white embloffom'd spray!
All in mufic, mirth and fong,
At the jocund dawn of day,
"now" they have br

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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.

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Each friend in vain (while you dis¿ain)
Attempts to foothe my care.

But all their arts to cure my smarts,

Inefficacious prove;

My mind's not free from flavery,
'Tis bound in chains of love.
Maria's fair, false man, declare,
Juft as thou didst to me;
(But maid beware his fatal fnare,
it's wrapt in perjury.)

His main delight is ftories bright,
They teal upon our ears;
Our tempers vex, degrade the fex,
And force down floods of tears.

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
To wretched me below;

Yet when I die, my foul fhall fly
Beyond the reach of woe.

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!
But oh! my mufe fcarcely can fpeak
The beauties that bloom'd in the fair.

Her mind was a stranger to ftrife,
Contentment the valu'd fo free;

Religion the lov'd as her life,

For none were more pious than fhe:
Her Maker the e'er made her theme,
His goodness was glad to rehearse;
And oft, by fome sweet winding ftream,
She echo'd his praises in verfe.

But ah! the dear damfel is gone,
Her fongs of devotion are o'er;

And the nymphs and the swains are forlorn,
Since Hebe, their pride, is no more:
For oh! the e'er taught them the way

To virtue, to honour, and truth;
And while they were fportive and gay,
She bade them reflect in their youth!

Till death with his fcythe came along,
And blighted her blotfoms fo foon;
He cut her off short from the throng,
When erft with the maid it was noens
Yet calmly her breast the refign'd,

For no one e'er faw her diftrefs'd;
And while on her arm the reclin'd

She gently funk into rest,

Then, virgins, who frolic and play
Regardless of forrow and care;
Come round, and attend to the lay

And weep for the lofs of the fair!
Like her, oh! pursue the right way;
Like her, be religious and ftaid;
Ah! ceafe, ye gay nymphs for to ftray,
And copy the mild, matchless maid!

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!
Whofe mind the pride difdains,
To act a rover's part;
To give the maid a pain,

Who yieldeth him her heart,
How guilelefs to embrace,
His fpotlefs wishes move!
His ev'ry action chafte,
His paffion only love!
Tranfported to poffefs

The object of his joys;
He feeks no more to blefs,
Contented with his choice.

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And leifure at the fultry noon

On flow'ry carpet flings him down,
There, fweet queen! I'll fing thy pleasures
In enthufiaftic measures,

And found thy praifes thro' the vale,
Refponfive to the hollow gale;

The murm'ting rills fhall fpread it round,
And grottos the wild notes rebound.

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;
E'en now they are flocking apace,

Hark! the tabor, and Corydon's fong!
Ah! how the fhrill pipe ftrikes my ear!
How fweetly it trills with the lay!
I wish my dear Phebe was here,

We'd haften to welcome the May.
She furely will be on the plain!

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;
To my theep has the clover lefs charms,
Than the taste of her kiffes to me.

SONG 997.

I'LL to fome fhady, cool retreat,
Where fpreading trees confpire to meet,
To hide my blush, while I repeat
The love 1 bear my Colin:
Name all that's amiable in love,
My Colin amply doth improve;
The facred truth of Heav'n above,

Is center'd in my Colin.

Were I poffefs'd of monarchs lands,
Of eastern shores, or golden fands;
No one thou'd fhare in Hymen's bands
With me, but lovely Colin.

With him, beneath a myrtle feat,
I'll fing, and blefs my happier fate,
Than feated on a throne of state,

With any one but Colin.

So long as Saran's glafs fhall run,
Or Perfian's hail the rifing fun,
Or till my thread of life is fpun,

So long shall I love Colin;
And when I take the parting kiss;
In death I'll chear my heart with this;
That I fhall meet in future bliss,
Again, with thee my 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
Their variegated hue;

Not all the bloom of fmiling May
Can charm fo much as you.

Where'er you tread, the warblers sweet
Melodious fill the grove;.
And fmiling nature feems to greet
The prefence of my love.
But blasted ev'ry flow'r appears,

When you forlake these plains;
No grove the feather'd fongfter chears,
In fweet mellifluous ftrains.

Come, dearest Nancy! come, and stay!
From you my joys arife;
Your face gives brightnefs to the day,
And luftre to the skies.

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For you I figh, and waste my prime;
Then hafte, and let us prove,
That rolling years, and fleeting time,
Are far too fhort for love.

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!
As thro' this painful life we fteer,
This valley of the figh and tear.
When by the heart with forrow griev'd,
A thousand bleflings are recelv'd,
With ev'ry comfort that can chear;
"Tis then bright virtue's grateful tear.

When ev'ry parting pang is o'er,
And friends long abfent meet once more,
Fraught with delight, and love fincere;
Tis then fweet friendship's joyful tear.
When two fond lovers, doom'd to part,
Feel deadly pangs invade their heart,
Torn from the object each holds dear;
'Tis then, then! the parting tear.

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