When wretches, on the earth reclin'd, If on fome lovely creature's face, When two dear friends, of kindred mind, But when the wretch, with fins opprefs'd, SONG 1000. Written by Mr. LEMOINE. Till Sylvia, heavenly Sylvia, came, Such lightning from those eyelids plays, Deluded fwains, who, vainly proud, And boastful scorn the proftrate crowd If once fair Sylvia you should meet, Sure wealth and poffeffions are charming! And fooner or later brings care. Yet tell me, proud boafter, if ever Did you e'er feel a pang, when oppreffion That virtue's fweet countenance bore? If the fprings of humanity never Have flow'd o'er the brims of your eye; What, then, are your care and your treasure? SONG 1003. THE QUEEN OF MAY. EVRY nymph and fhepherd, bring With her artless blush invites: Such, fo fragrant and so gay, Soon the fair Narciffus dies, Soon he droops his languid head; From the rofe her purple flies, None inviting to her bed: By the fuffiage of the fwains, In thy fhrine not long remains: Blefs, then, quickly blefs the youth, Who deferves thy love and truth. 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? SONG 1006. PHILLIS; A PASTORAL. 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: For virtue's the path I purfue; 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, I toil'd and I traffick'd, grew wealthy and great, 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. Sung at VAUXHALL, PALEMON lov'd Pañora, Palamon gave Paftora, A wreath and fhepherd's crook; Paftora gave to Damon, A pipe with hazel bound. The cap with chaplets crown'd, The wreath and fhepherd's crook So crossly turn'd their prefents went, SONG 1009. SMILE, fmile, Britannia, fmile, And thunder o'er the main: 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, Ye warblers, come raise your sweet throats, I breathe my complaints in a fong; And fweetens the borders along: 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! The nightingale perch'd on a thorn, Give place to the light of the moon. The lafs whom you conquer'd too foọn The planets fhall fart from their spheres, 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 That crowns the nuptial vow: 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 And he who long has rov'd, must make Proclaim you've touch'd him nearly; His own fweet charms too much he'll prize, But when with ev'ry manly grace, For mufic next I chanc'd to burn, 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. Is there a fweet that decks the field, The painted belles, at court rever'd, The willow binds Paftora's brows, Her fond advances fail: Might honeft truth, at laft, fucceed, Thrice happy cou'd he tune his reed 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: 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, DAMON. And could't thou then, bewitching maid, If Celia cou'd once more believe, Why, then, thofe fears that rack thy breaft? SONG 1019. DAPHNE. Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. NO longer, Daphne, I admire You fcorn'd my amorous tale. When Celia cry'd, How fenfelefs the, The man's a fool that pines and dies, The gentle blifs, that one denies, Such charming words, fo void of art, And tho' the maid fubdu'd my heart, A wretch condemn'd, fhall Daphne prove; In the fweet calendar of love |