Which the deities drink when they dine; Thofe heroes fo ftout, Was the flalk out of 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. He kifs'd and lov'd the bonny maid, 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, Written by Mr. SHENSTONE. COME liften to my mournful tale, Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; Nor need you blush to shed a tear. A brighter never trod the plain; Of gentle blood the damfel came; That led the faveur'd youth aftray ! And in the fatal drefs was found; 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. Yet might sweet mercy find a place, Should learn to lifp the giver's name. He shall not want one conftant friend She had not lov'd her fav'rite more. She follow'd him, prepar'd to view Which he had fondly lov'd fo long; 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 bore this conftant heart to fee; 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? How sweetly fmil'd the hill, the vale, The hill with beeches crown'd! No more, fince Daphne was my theme, Their verdant hill, and filver ftream, Divide my love and me. SONG 1081. THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGH. THERE was a shepherd's daughter And there by chance a knight she met, Good morrow to you, beauteous maid, If I've not my will of thee. That you should wax fo wode! He would not be withstood. Sith you have had your will of me, And put me to open fhame; Some do call me Jack, fweet-heart, But when I come to the king's fair court He fet his foot into the firrup, And away then he did ride; But when she came to the broad water, She fet her breast and swam ; He never was the courteous knight, 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, You have a knight within your court What hath he robbed thee of, fweet-heart? 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: His body I'll give to thee; PP He called down his merry men all, He brought her down full forty pound, OI have none of your gold, she said, The king hath granted me. Tis not thy gold that fhall me tempt, The king hath granted me. Would I had drank the water clear, A fhepherd's brat even as I was, 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; And fo they rode away. But when they came unto the place, Now marry me, or not, Sir Knight, If you make me lady of one good town, Ah! curfed be the gold, he faid, Thus he had both purfe, and person too, God Bacchus this moment adopts me his fen And infpir'd, my breast glows with transports unknown. The fparkling liquor new vigour fupplies, Then dull fober mortals be happy as me, 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, Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe, 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; He felt it, never doubt him: But mark the end, with scythe fo fharp Time o'er the forehead ftruck her, Yet ftill had hopes, ere bad grew worfe, 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, 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, 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 Whofe paffions act beneath controul, Is not more steadfast in it's reign, 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 But, Cupid, if thine aid be vain The youthful blood begins to flow; Be not too bold, nor yet too coy, And that's the way to keep him. And, left your tongue your mind betray, In fewer words confide: The maid, who thinks to gain a mate That's not 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, SONG 1093. A HUNTING CANTATA. Sung at VAUXHALL. 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; 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; Man of man makes a prey, |