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When wretches, on the earth reclin'd,
Their doom of condemnation fign'd,
(The end of earthly being near;)
'Tis then foft pity's gentle tear.

If on fome lovely creature's face,
Rich in proportion, colour, grace,
A pearly drop fhould once appear;
'Tis then the lovely, beauteous tear.
When mothers, (O! the greateful fight)
Their children view with fond delight;
Surrounded by a charge fo dear,
'Tis then the fond, maternal tear.
When lovers fee the beauteous maid,
To whom their fond attention's paid,
With confcious blushing fobs draw near;
1 'Tis then the lovely, pleading tear.

When two dear friends, of kindred mind,
By ev'ry gen'rous tie conjoin'd,
Behold their dreaded parting near,
'Tis then, O then! the bitter tear.

But when the wretch, with fins opprefs'd,
Strikes in an agony his breaft;
When torn with guilt, remorfe, and fear;
"Tis then the beft, the faving tear,

SONG 1000.

Written by Mr. LEMOINE.
OFT had I laugh'd at female pow'r,
And flighted Venus' chain;
Then chearful fped each fleeting hour,
Unknowo to eating pain:
By ftoic rules feverely taught
To fcorn bright beauty's charms,
Sage wisdom fway'd each rifing thought,
And woo'd me to her arms.

Till Sylvia, heavenly Sylvia, came,
Sweet pleafure play'd around;
Her lucid eyes fhot forth a flame
That hardest hearts would wound.
O charmer, ceafe that ardent gaze,
Nor rob me of my reft!

Such lightning from those eyelids plays,
It burns my tortur'd breaft.

Deluded fwains, who, vainly proud,
Affume gay freedom's air,

And boastful scorn the proftrate crowd
That figh before the fair!

If once fair Sylvia you should meet,
And view her heav'nly mein;
To love converted, at her feet,
You'll hug the pleasing chain.

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Sure wealth and poffeffions are charming!
Alike's the esteem of the fair;
The want of difcretion's alarming,

And fooner or later brings care.

Yet tell me, proud boafter, if ever
(Amongst all the goods you poffefs)
You've exerted your earneft endeavour
To dry up the tears of diftrefs?

Did you e'er feel a pang, when oppreffion
Has wounded the honeft man's peace?
Did you ever for wrongs make conceffion?
Or ever from bondage release?
Did you ever a bounty contribute,
When poverty ftood at your door?
Or ever an action exhibit

That virtue's fweet countenance bore?

If the fprings of humanity never

Have flow'd o'er the brims of your eye;
If oppreffion has been your endeavour,
Where mis'ry demanded a figh;

What, then, are your care and your treasure?
I'll tell you, young beau, in a trice:
Sure figns that you're mean beyond measure,
And fails, but to fet off your vice.

SONG 1003.

THE QUEEN OF MAY.
Sung at RANELAGH.

EVRY nymph and fhepherd, bring
Tribute to the queen of May;
Rifle for her brows the fpring,
Make her as the feafon gay;
Teach her then, from ev'ry flow'r,
How to use the fleeting hour.
Now the fair Narciffus blows,
With his sweetness now delights;
By his fide the maiden rofe

With her artless blush invites:
M m

Such, fo fragrant and so gay,
Is the blooming queen of May.

Soon the fair Narciffus dies,

Soon he droops his languid head; From the rofe her purple flies,

None inviting to her bed:
Such, tho' now fo fweet and gay,
Soon fhall be the queen of May.
Tho' thou art a rural queen,

By the fuffiage of the fwains,
Beauty, like the vernal green,

In thy fhrine not long remains: Blefs, then, quickly blefs the youth, Who deferves thy love and truth.

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Oh! take thefe (he cry'd) thou, more fair than their fleece!

I could hardly fay No, tho' afham'd to fay Yes.

Soon after, one morning, we fat in the grove, He prefs'd my hand hard, and in fighs breath'd his love;

Then tenderly afk'd, if I'd grant him a kifs?
I defign'd to've faid No, but miftook, and taid
Yes.

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SONG 1006.

PHILLIS; A PASTORAL.
Written by Mr. HAWKINS.

COME hafte thee, my Phillis, I pray,

And let us repair to the grove; Where nightingales, chearful and gay, Attune their fweet accents of love:" So foft is the found of their fong,

'Twill furely delight you, my fair; Then hafte thee, dear charmer, along, And ftraight to the grove let's repair. For fomething I have to impart,

That labours quite hard in my breafti So ardent and fierce is the fmart,

It robs me of peace and of reft:
'Tis love, that fond paffion, I swear,
By all that is honest and true;
And thou art the fource of my care,
I figh and I languish for you.
Then come, dearest Phillis, I pray,
And eafe all your Doriland's pain;
Ah! let him be chearful and gay,
Nor longer implore you in vain,
But let honeft freedom invite,

For virtue's the path I purfue;
And may happiness ever unite

With thofe who are conftant and true.

SONG 1007.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

COME give your attention to what I unfold,

The moral is true, tho' the matter is oldi' My honeft confeffion's intended to prove, How taftelefs, infipid, is life without love.

In works of old fophifts my mind I employ'd,
My bottle and friend too, by turns I enjoy'd,
I laugh'd at the fex, and prefumptuously ftrove
Their charms to forget, and bid farewel to love.

I toil'd and I traffick'd, grew wealthy and great,
A patriot in politicks, fond of debate;
Each paffion indulging, my doubts did remove,
They center'd in pleasure, and pleasure in love.

How weak my refolves! I confess'd, with a figh,

When Phillis, fweet Phillis, tripp'd wantonly by;

I caught her, and mention'd a turn in the grove Confenting! the made me a convert to love.

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Sung at VAUXHALL,

PALEMON lov'd Pañora,
Paftora figh'd for Damon;
But Damon lov'd Aurora,
Aurora young Palemon.

Palamon gave Paftora,

A wreath and fhepherd's crook;
And Damon gave Aurora,
A knot and reaping-hook.

Paftora gave to Damon,
A cap with chaplets crown'd;
Aurora gave Palamon,

A pipe with hazel bound.

The cap with chaplets crown'd,
Young Damon gave Aurora;
The pipe with hazel bound,
Palæmon gave Paftora.

The wreath and fhepherd's crook
Paftora gave to Damon;
The knot and reaping-hook,
Aurora gave Palæmon.

So crossly turn'd their prefents went,
Their loves fo oddly varied;
That every token which was fent,
It's true defign mifcarried.

SONG 1009.

SMILE, fmile, Britannia, fmile,
Thy genius comes again,
To guard thy fruitful ifle,

And thunder o'er the main:
Thy gallant fons, difdaining eafe,
Now crown thee mistress of the feas;

While dauntless they advance,

And bid the cannons roar; They'll fcourge the pride of France, And shake th' imperial fhore: Deriding trumpets o'er the waves, With courage never known to flaves. The deck diftain'd with blood,

The bullets wing'd with fate; The wide and restless flood,

Cannot their rage abate: In Anfon and in Warren, wake The fouls of Ruffel, and of Blake. Britons, purfue the blow,

Like fons of freedom fight; Convince the haughty foe,

That you'll maintain your right: Defiance bid to France and Spain, Affert your empire o'er the main.

SONG 1010.

BEHOLD the fweet flowers around,
With all the bright beauties they wear;
Yet none on the plains can be found
So lovely as Celia is fair:

Ye warblers, come raise your sweet throats,
No longer in filence remain;
Oh! lend a fond lover your notes,
To foften my Celia's difdain.
Oft-times in yon flowery vale,

I breathe my complaints in a fong;
Fair Flora attends the fad tale,

And fweetens the borders along:
But Celia, whofe breath might perfume
The bofom of Flora in May,
Still frowning pronounces my doom,
Regardless of all I can fay.

SONG IOII.

WHEN fairies dance round on the grafs,

And revel to night's awful noon;" O fay, will you meet me, fweet lafs, All by the pale light of the moon? My paffion I feek not to fcreen,

Then can I refuse you your boon!
I'll meet you at twelve on the green,
All by the pale light of the moon.

The nightingale perch'd on a thorn,
Then charms all the plains with her tune,
And glad of the abfence of morn
Salutes the pale light of the moon:
How fweet is the jeffamine grove,
And fweet are the roles of June!
But fweeter the language of love,
Breath'd forth by the light of the moon?
Too flow rolls the chariot of day,
Unwilling to grant me my boon:
Away, envious funshine, away!

Give place to the light of the moon.
But fay, will you never deceive,

The lafs whom you conquer'd too foọn
And leave a foft maiden to grieve,
Alone, by the light of the moon?

The planets fhall fart from their spheres,
Ere I prove fo fickle a loon;
Believe me I'll banish thy fears,

Dear maid, by the light of the moon: Our loves when the fhepherds fhall view, To us they their pipes fhall attune; While we our foft pleafures renew,

Each night, by the light of the moon.

SONG 1012.

THE ADVICE.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

YE nymphs, who to the throne of love
With hearts fubmiffive bow;
Who hope the mutual blifs to prove,

That crowns the nuptial vow:
Thro' caution's glafs, by reafon lent,

Oh view your lovers clearly, Nor think to wed, till that prefent

The man that loves you dearly.

Still blind to wifdom's ray, the rake
No focial blifs allows;

And he who long has rov'd, must make
A good-for-nothing spouse:
Nor truft the fop, tho' piteous fighs

Proclaim you've touch'd him nearly;

His own fweet charms too much he'll prize,
Nor can he love you dearly.

But when with ev'ry manly grace,
A youth of foul refin'd,
Who, doating on your form and face,
Thinks brighter till your mind:
When fuch fhall for the favour fue,
Oh! yield your hand fincerely;
And you'll love him, and he'll love you,
To life's laft moment, dearly.

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For mufic next I chanc'd to burn,
And fondly liften'd, in his turn,

To warbling, quiv'ring Charley. At length, alike the fools and wits, Fops, fidlers, foreigners, and cits,

All ftruck me by rotation: Then learn from me, ye patriot fair, Ne'er make one fingle man your care, But figh for all the nation.

SONG 1014.

FANNY OF THE DALE.

Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM.
LET the declining, damask rofe,
With envious grief look ple;
The fummer bloom more freely glows
In Fanny of the dale.

Is there a fweet that decks the field,
Or fcents the morning gale,
Can fuch a vernal fragrance yield,
As Fanny of the dale?

The painted belles, at court rever'd,
Look lifeless, cold, and ftale:
How faint their beauties, when compar'd
With Fanny of the dale!

The willow binds Paftora's brows,

Her fond advances fail:
For Damon pours his warmeft vows
To Fanny of the dale.

Might honeft truth, at laft, fucceed,
And artless love prevail;

Thrice happy cou'd he tune his reed
With Fanny of the dale!

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Written by Mr. NICHOLLS. WHERE the blithe bee her honey fips, In cowflip dale, in vi'let shade;

Dear Chloe, there I've kifs'd thy lips, While no rude eye my blifs furvey'd. Kifs, love! (you cry'd;) more kiffes give; Thy Chloe's pleafure ftill increate:

O could our bloom for ever live,

I'd never bid my Damon ceafe.

The tongue that (poke your fhepherd bless'd:
What mortal could refift fuch charms!
Thy bofom to my heart I prefs'd,
And, panting, dy'd in Chloe's arms.

SONG 1017.

A CANTATAI

Sung at MARY BONE.

CLEORA fat beneath a shade,

Her wanton flocks forgot to play; Then listen to the lovely maid,

While thus the mourns her thepherd's stay. Sure time and love are both asleep, Or Dorus would his promife keep; Hafte, gentle fhepherd, hither move, And we'll awake both time and love.

Dorus, wing'd with fwift defire,

Came haft'ning o'er the neighb'ring plain; Approaching joys the maid inspire,

And thus the meets her panting swain.

Fly care and anguish far away,
While pleafures blefs this happy day;
Let ev'ry fhepherd joyful be,
And ev'ry pair as bleft as we.

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DAMON.

And could't thou then, bewitching maid,
Could't thou be flighted, or betray'd?
Or, is it but an artful tale,
O'er Damon's paffion to prevail?
For furely thou wert born to reign,
To love, and to be lov'd again.
CELIA.

If Celia cou'd once more believe,
Damon, like Thyrfis, would deceive;
And yet, methinks, it cannot be :
There must be faith and truth in thee;
Trust me, thy Celia feels thy pain,
And wishes the cou'd love again.
DAMON.

Why, then, thofe fears that rack thy breaft?
Say that thou wilt, and I am bleft:
But, if my vows fuccefslefs prove,
Damon fhall bid adieu to love;
Like thee, refolve to quit the plain,
And never, never love again.

SONG 1019.

DAPHNE.

Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM.

NO longer, Daphne, I admire
The graces in thine eyes;
Continu'd coynefs kills defire,
And famifh'd paffion dies.
Three tedious years I've figh'd in vain,
Nor could my vows prevail;
With all the rigours of difdain,

You fcorn'd my amorous tale.

When Celia cry'd, How fenfelefs the,
That has fuch vows refus'd;
Had Damon giv'n his heart to me,
It had been kinder us'd.

The man's a fool that pines and dies,
Because a woman's coy:

The gentle blifs, that one denies,
A thousand will enjoy.

Such charming words, fo void of art,
Surprizing rapture gave;

And tho' the maid fubdu'd my heart,
It ceas'd to be a flave.

A wretch condemn'd, fhall Daphne prove;
While bleft without restraint,

In the fweet calendar of love
My Celia ftands—a faint.

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