SPRING returns; the fauns advance, See the wanton nymphs appear, Whilft I forlorn, &c. Now the fwain with wat'ry fhoe, Gentle nymphs, forfake the mead, fall; And who can difcover aught wanting, but this, For England to rival e'en Heaven in blifs, Their women as beaueous we often behold, As if they'd been form'd in your fav'rite's mould; And their men do in war fo much brav'ry fhew, I have frequently taken a Briton for you: Befides, tho' in England no vineyards appear, Not a god 'mongst us all but can relish their beer. 'Tis true that the Gauls, who have broken their truce, May debar them awhile from fome fav'rite juice: But when on the earth you in person appear, They'll fupply it again-for your prefence they fear. Then foon as our liquor is fairly drunk out, To England repair, and their enemies rout. Accordingly Mars clapt the bowl to his mouth, And drank to Great Britain's friends, North, Eaft, and South; THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH. Occafioned by a Story recorded of her when the Each ambitious thought refigning, While the nymphs and fwains delighted Who would ever courts purfue? Cenfure never taught to bear: Love is all the shepherd's pleafure; Love is all the damfel's care. How can they of humble ftation Vainly blame the pow'rs above? Or accuse the dispensation Which allows them all to love ? Love like air is widely given; Said to fade when Chloe's near; Move fo fprightly, look fo fair; Then, had been my shepherd's heart. Then, with him, o'er hills and mountains," Free from fetters, might I rove: Fearless tafte the chryftal fountains; Peaceful fleep beneath the grove. Ruftics had been more forgiving; Partial to my virgin bloom: None had envy'd me when living; None had triumph'd o'er my tomb. Sung at RANEĻAGH, TELL me, laffes, have you seen, Lately wand'ring o'er the green, Tell me, laffes, have you feen Subtle as the lightning's wound, Tell me, laffes, &c. Oft the urchin's feen to lie Snowy breafts, or curling hair, She that the recefs reveals Tell me, laffes, have you feen SONG 1027. A COMICAL ODE. Written by Mr. HEYWOOD. COME, ev'ry bold blade, come, each honeft foul, Whofe only delight upon earth is good drinking; Come, mix your ingredients, and fill up your bowl, While I tell you a cure I've discover'd for Come! come all to me, It will fill all your bofoms with gladness and For fure fuch a medicine has never been feen, Tho' fome fay I fing like an owl, or an afs, Yet I care not for that, for while I have my In fpight of their fneers, and their fleers, And I'd glad know his name Or who, in the fame cafe, would not do the For fure, there's no mortal on earth can re Who, join'd to good liquor, has this Maga- Now HAWKINS, now NICHOLLS, now MA. Leave your fighings, your dyings, your bat tles, and flaughter! Fill, fill up your glaffes, and drink off your wine; For who can write well who drinks nothing but water! Can the lips of the Mifs, That you figh fo to kiss, Be fweeter, or fofter, or redder than this! main, And all drink fuccefs to this new Magazine. |