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Know this, thou falfe Phebe, I've alter'd my

mind,

And will feek out another more conftant and kind.

Thus murm'ring, I fled, at my fancy'd difgrace, Till bright Reafon o'ertuok me, and flacken'd my pace.

Pry'thee hold, filly fwain, faid the heavenborn fair;

Your rage is unmanly, return to your care. I plainly perceive for the paffion's confefs'd, 'Tis jealoufy rifles your bofom of rest. Can your Phebe be faithlefs! remember, dull fwain,

That your abfence to her's the commencement of pain:

Her lovers were many, rich, handsome, and

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Quite convinc'd of my folly, and rid of my pain
I haften'd away to my paftures again;
Where, under the fycamore boughs, by the
brook,

As recumbent I lean'd on the stem of my crook;
I faw the dear maid tripping blitheo'er the plain
With a pofey receiv'd from the hand of the swain.
Straight I fled to my love, and (I own it with
pride)

Commended the gift, and the giver befide.

Ye fwains, ne'er let jealoufy enter the breaft;
The demon's delight is to rob you of reft:
'Tis heartlefs to think what the jealous must
know;

They feel all the pangs of the wretched below!
To 'fcape from this fury, be gentle and gay
To the fair you efteem, and ftill give her her

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SONG 1062.

Written by Mr. MALLET. FAR in the windings of a vale,

Faft by a fheltering wood, The fafe retreat of health and peace, An humble cottage flood:

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair Beneath a mother's eye,

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Whofe only with on earth was now
To fee her bleft, and die.
The fofteft blufh that nature fpreads
Gave colour to her cheek;
Such orient colour smiles thro' heav'n
When May's fweet mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones fcorn

This charmer of the plains;

That fun which bids their diamond blaze,
To deck our lily deigns.

Long had the fir'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with defpair;
And tho' by all a wonder own'd,

Yet knew not he was fair.

Till Edwin came, the pride of fwains,
A foul that knew no art,
And from whofe eyes ferenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too reveal'd;
For neither bofom lodg`d a wifh
Which virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of heartfelt blifs,

Did love on both beftow!

But blifs too mighty long to laft,

Where fortune proves a foe.

His fifter, who like Envy form'd,
Like her in mifchief joy'd, '

To work them harm, with wicked skill

Each darker art employ'd.

The father too, a fordid man,

Who love nor pity knew,

Was all unfeeling as the rock

From whence his riches grew.

Long had he feen their mutual flame,
And feen it long unmov'd;
Then with a father's frown, at laft,
He fternly disapprov'd,
In Edwin's gentle heart a war

Of differing paffions ftrove;
His heart which durft not disobey,
Yet could not ceafe to love.

Deny'd her fight, he oft behind

The fpreading hawthorn crept,

To fnatech a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.

Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight thade,
In fighs to pour his foften'd foul,

The midnight mourner ftray'd.

His cheeks, where love with beauty glow`d,

A deadly pale o'erçaft;

So fades the fresh rofe in it's prime,
Before the northern blaft.

The parents now, with late remorfe,
Hung o'er his dying bed,

And weary'd heav'n with fruitless pray'rs,
And fruitless forrows fhed.

'Tis paft, he cry'd; but, if your fouls Sweet mercy yet can move,

Let these dim eyes once more behold
What they must ever love.

She came; his cold hand foftly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear;
Faft falling o'er the primrose pale

So morning dews appear.

But oh his fifter's jealous care

(A cruel fifter fhe!)
Forbade what Emma came to fay-
My Edwin, live for me.

Now homeward as the hopeless went,
The church-yard path along,

The blaft blew cold, the dark owl fcream'd
Her lover's fun'ral fong.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her ftartling fancy found
In ev'ry buth his hovering fhade,
His groan in every found.

Alone, appall'd, thus had the pafs'd
The vifionary vale,

When lo! the death-bell fmote her ear,
Sad founding in the gale.

Juft then the reach'd, with trembling fteps,
Her aged mother's door;

He's gone, fhe cry'd, and I fhall fee
That angel face no more.

I feel, I feel this breaking heart
Beat high against my fide!

From her white arm down funk her head;
She shiver'd, figh'd, and died.

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Written by Mr. NICHOLLS.

SEE, Phillidel, that busy bee,

How fwift the fcuds from tree to tree, To kifs the fwe teft flow'r! Thus all the day he loves to roam, At eve the feeks her ruftick home, And hives a precious store.

'Gainst hoary winter binds the green, When not a bud or bloffom's feen

To tempt her vagrant wing;
Contented with her prudent ftore
She dwells, nor feeks the meadows more
Till Flora gives the fpring.

Not fo the drone; in funny haunts
He juft fupplies his prefent wants,
Unmindful of the hour

When black December's chilling air
Shail mock his timely want of care,

And dumb each vital pow'r.

E'en fo the youth, who thoughless throws Away what Providence beftows,

Soon feels the hand of need; Whilft those who carefully increase, Find, like the bee, in winter peace, And pleafures fair fucceed.

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293

Not to love, nor be lev'd, oh! I never can bear, Nor yield to be fent to-one cannot tell where; To live or to die, in this cafe, were all one; Nay, I fooner would die than be reckon'd anun.

Perhaps, but to teize me the threatens me fo, I'm fure were the me, she would ftoutly say, No; But if he's in earnest, I from her will run, And be marry'd in spite, that I mayn't be a nuŋ.

SONG 1067.

WHEN first I faw the graceful maid,
Ah! me, what meant my throbbing breast;
Say, fort confufion, art thou love!

If love thou art, then farewel reft.
With gentle fmiles affwage the pain
Thofe gentle fmiles did first create;
And though you may not love again,
In pity, ah! forbear to hate.

SONG 1068.

WINTER; AN ODE.

Written by Mr. NICHOLLS.
NOW doth bleak quarter rudely blow,
And clad in fable, fring'd with fnow,
Hoary-headed winter's come:
To pluck the rofes from the cheek,
To chap the fkin before fo fleek;
Ev'ry pliant joint to numb.

Now round the embers goffips darn,
The thatcher blithe, in well-thatch'd barn,
Whiftles to his flying flail;
Whilft Robin Red-breaft, perch'd on high,
Shelter'd from the frowning sky,

Sweetly blends his merry tale.

Now fkulking under hedges low,
With nofe and knuckles tipp'd with blue,
Lazy Dicken feeks his cows;
Whimpering for his aching toes,
Blowing fingers almost froze,

Wishing moft with Doll to house.
Whilft the alert and active swain,
Exercifing every vein,

Skims the flide with open breaft,
His fav'rite lafs, from brake below,
Refcends the ball of filver fnow;

Jeering him she loves the beft.
And now beneath the house-leek'd thatch,
Hard tugging at her frozen latch,

Goody Goflip fhiv'ring stands;
As o'er the file brisk Colin comes,
She hails the fwain with toothless gums,
Begging him to lend his hands.
Now in yonder clay-thatch'd cell,
Lift'ning to the dismal knell,

Poverty her head reclines;
A pallid languor wreathes her brow,
To rear her form she knows not how;
There the fits, and fadly pines.
Go, fons of wealth, while winter reigns,
Seach through the hamlet, fearch the plains;

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то THE

NIGHTINGALE.

Written by Mr. NICHOLLS. SAY, Philomela, fweet bind fay,

Why 'tis you fhun the folar ray?
Has the pale emprefs of the night
Such a rare ftore of calm delight,
That you from melody refrain

Til he leads up her starry train :
Then to her filver beams you fing
The sweetest cadence of the fpring.

Ah! lovely warbler, quit the thade
For penfive melancholy made:
Come whilst the meads are fresh and gay,
From lift'ning morn till fitting day,
And with thy most melodious krains,
Make light the labour of the fwains;
So may the thorn, that's in thy neft,
Ne'er ankle in thy tender breaft!
When the dull fhades of night are fled,
And Phoebus fhews his radiant head,
Amidst the fweets of op'ning flow'rs,
From hills, from vales, from woods and how'rs;

All but the moping owl, and thee,
Climb the vast building, and the tree,
Stretch wide their throats, and warble Sweet,
To hail the genial god of heat.

Come with the gayeft choir unite,
And greet with them the fource of light!
For when thou firft effay'd thy wing,
He led thee forth to cooling (pring.
Matur'd the worm thou lov't to well,
And spread the bloffems round thy cell:
Made thick the fhades, you haunt in june,
To fhun the fultry beams of noon.
Come, and with thy varied fong
Make glad my heart the whole day long.
O come! and, of the ruftick throng,
Should one effay to do thee wrong,
May he ne'er know that peace of mind
The fons of tenderness can find:
May fairy elves, and dapper Iprights,
Make fad his noon-day and his nights.

Thus fings a fwain who fcorns the throng!
Who'd do nor neft, nor nestlings wrong;
Whofe will would never do offence
To helpless, artless innocence;
But would with all his might divert
The hand uplift to do thee hurt.
And entertain me as your friend!
Then quickly to my vale defcend,

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Sung at VAUXHALL.

WHEN larks forfake the flow'ry plain,
And love's fweet numbers fwell;
My voice shall join their morning strain,
In praife of Florizel.

Where woodbines twiff their fragrant shade,
And noontide beams repel;

I'll reft me on the tufted mead,
And fing of Florizel.

When moon-beams dance among the boughs,
That lodge fweet Philomel,

I'll pour with her my tuneful vows,

And fing of Florizel.

Were mine, ye great, your envy'd lot,
In gilded courts to dwell;
I'd leave them for a lonely cot,
With love and Florizel.

SONG 1072.

Written by Mr. HAMILTON.

AH! the fhepherd's mournful fate!
When doom'd to love, and doom'd to lan-
guish,

To bear the fcornful fair-one's hate,
Nor dare difclofe his anguish.
Yet eager looks, and dying fighs,

My fecret foul difcover,
While rapture trembling thro' my eyes
Reveals how much I love her.

The tender glance, the redd'ning cheek,
O'erfpread with rifing blushes,
A thousand various ways they fpeak
A thousand various wishes.

For oh! that form fo heavenly fair,
Thofe languid eyes fo fweetly smiling!
That artless blush, and modeft air,
So artfully beguiling!
Thy every look, and every grace

So charms whene'er I view thee,
Till death o'ertake me in the chace
Still will my hopes purfue thee:
Then when my tedious hours are past
Be this last bleffing given,
Low at thy feet to breath my laft,
And die in fight of heaven.

SONG 1073,

SURE YOU WILL NOT LEAVE ME.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

WHEN firft you woo'd me to comply,

And taught my heart to flutter,
You faid you ne'er wou'd from me fly,

As plain as tongue could utter;
That you'd be ev'ry thing that's dear,
Of joy you'd not bereave me;
I'd all to hope, and nought to fear,
Then fure you will not leave me.
Were I fo wickedly inclin'd,

I might abuse the leisure;

I know who wou'd be fond and kind,
And think attendance pleasure:
But I to honour will be true,

And never once deceive ye;
What's just to plighted love I'll do,
Then fure you will not leave me.

Say, fay the word you will not go,
Nor cruel let me find ye,

With you all risk and toil I'll know,

But cannot stay behind ye.

ho' left on Tweed's or Thames' fmooth fide, Your abfence fure would grieve me;

O what a pain it is to chide!

Sure, fure you will not leave me.

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And all is grace, and all is love
In blooming Nancy Wall.
Sublimely fweet, whene'er the fings,
The melting accents fall;

And lift'ning Cupids clap their wings,
Applauding Nancy Wall.

A foul fo bright, a form so fair,
For adoration cali;

And reafon bids us worship there,
And points to Nancy Wall:
Whilft thus divine, my fears how great!
My hope how very mail!
If he alone is bleft by fate,
Who merit Nancy Wall.

SONG 1075.

ANACREONTIC.

Written by Mr. MAVOR.

WHILE I figh'd with idle care,
For a jilting, cruel fair,
Thracia's god forbade to pine,
And prefcrib'd his rofy wine!
Quick tormenting Cupid flew,
And to love I bade adieu :
Bacchus came with jolly face,
And fupply'd his vacant place.
Ev'ry joy on earth was mine,
Social friends, and mirth and wine;
Then I fwore by Stygian Jove,
Ne'er to tafte the cares of love.

But how frail the vow that dies
At a glance of beauty's eyes!
Chloe taught me wine was vain,
And I turn'd to love again.

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