Which the deities drink when they dine;
Let none hence deceive ye,
For if you'll believe me,
Their nectar's no more than good wine.

Thofe heroes fo ftout,
Who our enemies rout,
And to glory fo much do incline;

Was the flalk out of fight,
They no longer could fight,

So the praife is all due to good wine.

The poet, whofe wit

Each humour can hit,

Who with rapture makes flow ev'ry line; What tho' he may chufe

Other names for his mufe,

Yet the name of the mufe is good wine.

The prieft fo devout,

His text to help out,

Seeks relief in his cardinal fine;

After taking a fup

From a full-flowing cup,

Cries, There's nothing on earth like good wine.

To fum up my fong,

That you mayn't think it long,

Tho' the fubject, you'll own, is divine; From the east to the west,

By all folks 'tis confeft,

That there's nothing can equal good wine.

SONG 1077.

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

THE fun juft glancing thro' the trees Gave light and joy to ilka grove, And pleasure in each fouthern breeze, Awaken'd hope and flumb'ring love. When Jenny fung with hearty glee

To charm her winfome marrow, My bonny laddie gang with me,

We'll o'er the braes of Yarrow.
Young Sandy was the blitheft fwain,
That ever pip'd on broomy brae:
No lafs cou'd ken him free fra pain,
So graceful, kind, fo fair and gay.
And Jenny fung, &c.

He kifs'd and lov'd the bonny maid,
Her fparkling een had won his heart;
No lafs the youth had e'er betray'd,
No fears had fhe, the lad no art.
And fill the fung, &c.

SONG 1078.

Written by the Rev. Dr. DE LA COUR. Occafioned by feeing a Lady in an oppofite Window.

WHILST on forbidden fruit I gaze,
And look my heart away;
Behold my star of Venus blaze,
And rife upon the day:

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE.

COME liften to my mournful tale,

Ye tender hearts and lovers dear;
Nor will you fcorn to heave a figh,

Nor need you blush to shed a tear.
And thou, dear Kitty, per-lefs maid,
Do thou a penfive ear imine;
For thou canst weep at every woe;
And pity every plaint-but mine.
Young Dawson was a gallant boy,

A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lev'd again.
One tender maid, the lov'd him dear,

Of gentle blood the damfel came;
And faultlefs was her beauteous form,
And fpotlefs was her virgin fame.
But cuufe on party's hateful trife,

That led the faveur'd youth aftray !
The day the rebel clans appear'd;
O, had he never seen that day!
Their colours and their fafh he wore,

And in the fatal drefs was found;
And now he muft that death endure,

Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true-love's cheek When Jemmy's fentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine fnows

So pale, or yet fo chill appear.
With fault'ring voice, the weeping faid,
Oh, Dawfon, monarch of my heart;
Think not thy death fhall end our lover,
For thou and I will never part.

Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes;
O George, without a pray'r for thee,
My oraifons fhould never clofe.
The gracious prince that gave him life,
Would crown a never-dying flame;
And ev'ry tender babe I bore

Should learn to lifp the giver's name.
But tho' he fhould be dragg'd in fcon
To yonder ignominious tree;

He shall not want one conftant friend
To share the cruel fate's decree.
O then her mourning-coach was call'd,
The fledge mov'd flowly on before;
Tho' borne in a triumphal car,

She had not lov'd her fav'rite more.

She follow'd him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behefts of law;
And the last fcene of Jemmy's woe,
With calm and ftedfaft eye fhe faw.
Distorted was that blooming face,

Which he had fondly lov'd fo long;
And ftifled was that tuneful breath,

Which in her praise had fweetly fung; And fever'd was that beauteous neck, Round which her arms had fondly clos'd; And mangled was that beauteous breast,

On which her love-fick head repos'd:

And ravish'd was that conftant heart,
She did to ev'ry heart prefer ;
For though it could it's king forget.
'Twas true and loyal ftill to her.
Amid thofe unrelenting flames

She bore this conftant heart to fee;
But when 'twas moulder'd into duft,

Yet, yet, the cry'd, I follow thee. My death, my death alone can fhew

The pure, the lafting love I bore; Accept, O heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more.

The difmal fcene was o'er and past,

The lover's mournful hearse retir'd; The maid drew back her languid head, And fighing forth his name, expir'd.

Tho' juftice ever must prevail,

The tear my Kitty sheds is due ; For feldom fhall he hear a tale

So fad, fo tender, yet fo true.

THE LANDSCAPE.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE,

HOW pleas'd within my native bowers Erewhile I pafs'd the day!

Was ever scene fo deck'd with flowers?
Were ever flowers fo gay?

How sweetly fmil'd the hill, the vale,
And all the landscape round!
The river gliding down the dale,

The hill with beeches crown'd!
But now, when urg'd by tender woes
I fpeed to meet my dear,
That hill and ftream my zeal oppofe,
And check my fond career.

No more, fince Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms 1 fee:

Their verdant hill, and filver ftream, Divide my love and me.

SONG 1081.

THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGH.
TER; AN OLD BALLAD.

THERE was a shepherd's daughter
Came tripping on the way;

And there by chance a knight she met,
Which caufed her to stay.

Good morrow to you, beauteous maid,
These words pronounced he:
OI fhall die this day, he said,

If I've not my will of thee.
The Lord forbid, the maid reply'd,

That you should wax fo wode!
But for all that she could do or fay,

He would not be withstood.

Sith you have had your will of me,

And put me to open fhame;
Now, if you are a courteous knight,
Tell me what is your name?

Some do call me Jack, fweet-heart,
And fome do call me Jill;

But when I come to the king's fair court
They call me Wilful Will.

He fet his foot into the firrup,

And away then he did ride;
She tuckt her girdle about her middle,
And ran close by his fide.

But when she came to the broad water,

She fet her breast and swam ;
And when she was got out again,
She took to her heels and ran.

He never was the courteous knight,
To fay, Fair maid, will ye ride?
And the was ever too loving a maid,
To fay, Sir Knight abide.

When she came to the king's fair court,

She knocked at the ring;

So ready was the king himself

To let this fair maid in.

Now Chrift you fave, my gracious liege,
Now Chrift you fave and fee,

You have a knight within your court
This day hath robbed me.

What hath he robbed thee of, fweet-heart?
Of purple or of pall?

Or hath he took thy gay gold-ring

From off thy finger fmall?

He hath not robbed me, my liege,

Of purple nor of pall:
But he hath got my maidenhead,
Which grieves me worst of all.
Now if he be a batchelor,

His body I'll give to thee;
But if he be a married man,
High hanged he shall be.

PP

He called down his merry men all,
By one, by two, by three;
Sir Widiam ufed to be the first,
But now the laft came he.

He brought her down full forty pound,
Tied up within a glove:
Fair maid, I'll give the fame to thee;
Go, feek thee another love.

OI have none of your gold, she said,
Nor I'll have none of your fee;
But your fair body I must have

The king hath granted me.
Sir William ran and fetched her then
Five hundred pounds in gold,
Saying, Fair maid, take this to thee,
Thy fault will ne'er be told.

Tis not thy gold that fhall me tempt,
These words then answered fhe,
But your own body I must have,

The king hath granted me.

Would I had drank the water clear,
When I did drink the wine,
Rather than any shepherd's brat
Should be a lady of mine!
Would I had drank the puddle foul,
When I did drink the ale,
Rather than ever a fhepherd's brat
Should tell me such a tale!

A fhepherd's brat even as I was,
You might have let me be,

never had come to the king's fair court, To crave any love of thee.

He fet her on a milk-white steed,

And himself upon a grey;
He hung a bugle about his neck,

And fo they rode away.

But when they came unto the place,
Where marriage rites were done,
She prov'd herself a doke's daughter,
And he but a fquire's fon.

Now marry me, or not, Sir Knight,
Your pleasure shall be free;

If you make me lady of one good town,
I'll make you lord of three.

Ah! curfed be the gold, he faid,
If thou hadst not been true,
1 fhould have forfaken my fweet love,
And have changed her for a new.
And now their hearts being linked faft,
They joined hand in band:

Thus he had both purfe, and person too,
And all at his command.

God Bacchus this moment adopts me his fen And infpir'd, my breast glows with transports unknown.

The fparkling liquor new vigour fupplies,
And makes the nymph kind who before was
too wife.

Then dull fober mortals be happy as me,
Two bottles of claret will make us agree,
Will open your eyes to fee Phillie's charms,
And her coynefs wath'd down, the'll fly to your

arm.

SONG 1083.

ARISE, arife, great dead, for arms renown'd, Rife from your urns, and save your dying ftory;

Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drown'è, For mighty William feizes all your glory. Again the British trumpet founds,

Again Britannia bleeds;

To glorious death, or comely wounds,
Her godlike monarch leads.

Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe,
Celestial minds from clay untie;
Let coward fpirits dwell below,
And only give the brave to die.

SONG 1084.

Written by MATTHEW PRIOR. YES, faireft proof of beauty's power, Dear idol of my panting heart; Nature points this my fatal hour;

And I have liv'd; and we must part.

While now I take my laft adieu,

Heave thou no figh, nor fhed a tear; Left yet my half-clos'd eye may view On earth an object worth it's care. From jealoufy's tormenting ftrife

For ever be thy bofom freed; That nothing may disturb thy life, Content I haften to the dead.

Yet when some better-fated youth

Shall with his amorous parley move thee, Reflect one moment on his truth Who dying thus perfifts to love thee.

PHILIRA's charms poor Damon took;
How eager he for billing!
When, lo! the Nymph the fwain forfook,
To fhew her pow'r of kiliing:
In either eye the fheath'd a dart;

He felt it, never doubt him:
Odzooks! a man were through the heart,
Ere he cou'd look about him.

But mark the end, with scythe fo fharp

Time o'er the forehead ftruck her,
And all her charms began to warp;
Then he was in a pucker:
She then began to rave and curfe,
Her time the pafs'd no better;

Yet ftill had hopes, ere bad grew worfe,
Some comely fwain might get her.

Philira, ev'ry lad she meets,

Now makes an am'rous trial;

But each with fcorn her warmness treats;

Each frowns in cold denial.

Coquettes, take warning; change your tune,

This woeful cafe remember:

The bedfellow you flight in June,

You'll wish for in December.

SONG 1087.

Written by Mrs. BARBAULD. COME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be That boafts to love as well as me,

And if thy breast have felt so wide a wound,
Come hither and thy flame approve;
I'll teach thee what it is to love,
And by what marks true paffion may be found.

It is to be all bath'd in tears,

To live upon a fmile for years,

To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet;

To kneel, to languish, and implore,
And ftill tho' fhe difdain, adore;

It is to do all this, and think thy fuff'rings fweet.

It is to gaze upon her eyes With eager joy and fond furprize, Yet temper'd with fuch chafte and awful fear As wretches feel who wait their doom; Nor must one ruder thought prefume, Tho' but in whispers breath'd, to meet her ear It is to hope, tho' hope were loft, Tho' heaven and earth thy passion croft; Tho' the were bright as fainted queens above, And thou the leaft and meaneft fwain That folds his flock upon the plain, Yet if thou dar'ft not hope, thou doft not love.

It is to quench thy joy in fears,

To nurfe ftrange doubts and groundless fears; If pangs of jealoufy thou haft not prov'd, Tho' fhe were fonder and more true Than any nymph old poets drew, O never dream again that thou haft lov'd. If when the darling maid is gone, Thou dost not feek to be alone, Wrapt in a pleafing trance of tender woe; And mufe, and fold thy languid arms, Feeding thy fancy on her charms, Thou doft not love, for love is nourish'd fo.

If any hopes thy bosom share,

But thofe which love has planted there, Or any cares but his thy breaft enthrall, Thou never yet his power haft known; Love fits on a defpotic throne, And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all. Now if thou art fo loft a thing, Here all thy tender forrows bring, And prove whofe patience longeft can endure; We'll strive whofe fancy fhall be loft

In dreams of fondest passion most ;

For if thou thus haft lov'd, oh! never hope a

I

cure.

SONG 1088.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

Like the man whose foaring foul
Is gen'rous and refin'd,

Whofe paffions act beneath controul,
With love and honour join'd.
The oak, by woodbines on the plain,
Encompafs'd and carefs'd,

Is not more steadfast in it's reign,
Nor is more fweetly drefs'd.

The frothy fans of vice and show,

Like fhadows, and like noife, Have nothing in themselves, we know, That fober fenfe enjoys;

But pure and conftant love endears,

And feafts both ear and fight, While ev'ry thing that virtue fears Can give no true delight.

SONG 1089. Written by Mrs. BARBAULD.

IF ever thou didst joy to bind Two hearts in equal paffion joind, O fon of Venus! hear me now, And bid Florella blefs my vow. If any blifs referv'd for me Thou in the leaves of fate should'ft fee, If any white propitious hour, Pregnant with hoarded joys in ftore; Now, now the mighty treasure give, In her for whom alone I live; In fterling love pay all the fum, And I'll abfolve the fates to come.

In all the pride of full-blown charms
Yield her, relenting, to my arms;
Her bofom touch with foft defires,
And let her feel what the infpires.

But, Cupid, if thine aid be vain
The dear reluctant maid to gain,
If ftill with cold averted eyes
She dash my hopes, and scorn my fighs;
O grant ('tis all I afk of thee)
That I no more may change than fhe:
But ftill with duteous zeal love on,
When ev'ry gleam of hope is gone.
Leave me then alone to languish,
Think not time can heal my anguish,
Pity the woes which I endure,
But never, never grant a cure.

The youthful blood begins to flow;
She hopes for man, and longs to know
The fureft way to keep him.
When firft the pleafing pain is felt
Within the lover's breast;
And you by ftrange perfuafion melt,
Each wishing to be bieft:

Be not too bold, nor yet too coy,
With prudence lure the happy boy,

And that's the way to keep him.
At court, at ball, at park, or play,
Affume a modeft pride;

And, left your tongue your mind betray, In fewer words confide:

The maid, who thinks to gain a mate
By giddy chat, will find, too late,

That's not the way to keep him.
In dreffing ne'er the hours kill,
That bane to all the fex;
Nor let the arts of dear fpadille
Your innocence perplex:
Be always decent as a bride;
By virtuous rules your reafon guide;
For that's the way to keep him.

But when the muptial knot is fast,

And both it's bleflings fhare, To make thofe joys for ever last,

Of jealoufy beware;

His love with kind compliance meet,
Let conftancy the work complete,
And you'll be fure to keep him.

SONG 1093.

A HUNTING CANTATA.

Sung at VAUXHALL.
RECITATIVE.

HARK, the horn calls away;

Come the grave, come the gay; Wake to mufic that wakens the fkies, Quit the bondage of floth, and arise.

AIR.

From the Eaft breaks the morn,

See the fun-beams adorn

The wild heath, and the mountains fo high; Shrilly opes the ftaunch hound,

The teed neighs to the found,

And the floods and the vallies reply.

Our forefathers fo good

Prov'd their greatness of blood,

By encount'ring the hart and the boar;
Ruddy health bloom'd the face,

Age and youth urg'd the chace,

And taught woodlands and forefts to roar.

Hence, of noble defcent,

Hills and wilds we frequent,

Where the bofom of nature's reveal'd;
Though in life's bufy day,

Man of man makes a prey,
Still let ours be the prey of the field.