SPRING returns; the fauns advance,
Leading on the sprightly dance,
O'er the fallow, o'er the glade,
Thro' the funfhine, thro' the shade;
Whilft I forlorn, and penfive ftill,
Sit fighing for my daffodil.

See the wanton nymphs appear,
Smiling all, as fmiles the year!
Sporting, print where'er they tread,
Daily ground, or primrose bed.

Whilft I forlorn, &c.

Now the fwain with wat'ry fhoe,
Brushes by the morning dew;
With officious love to bear
Fresh-blown cowflips to his fair.
Whilst I forlorn, &c.

Gentle nymphs, forfake the mead,
To my love for pity plead;

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
was a Prifoner at Woodstock, 1554.
Written by Mr. SHENSTONE.
WILL you hear how once repining
Great Eliza captive lay?

Each ambitious thought refigning,
Foe to riches, pomp, and fway?

While the nymphs and fwains delighted
Tript around in all their pride;
Envying joys by others flighted,
Thus the royal maiden cry'd;
Bred on plains, or born in vallies,
Who would bid thofe fcenes adieu ?
Stranger to the arts of malice,

Who would ever courts purfue?
Malice never taught to treasure,

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 ?

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,
Beauty's fon, a little boy,
Full of frolic, mirth, and joy?
If you know his shelter, fay;
He's from Venus gone aftray:

Tell me, laffes, have you feen
Such a one trip o'er the green?
By thefe marks the god you'll know,
O'er his shoulder hangs a bow,
And a quiver fraught with darts,
Poifon fure to human hearts :
Tho' he's naked, little, blind,
He can triumph o'er the mind.
Tell me, laffes, &c.

Subtle as the lightning's wound,
Is his piercing arrow found;
While the bofom'd heart it pains,
No external mark remains;
Reafon's fhield itself is broke,
By the unfufpected stroke.

Tell me, laffes, &c.

Oft the urchin's feen to lie
Bafking in the funny eye;
Or his deftin'd prey he seeks
On the maiden's rofy cheeks