Tho' fix fweethearts daily ftrove
To deferve thy Betley's love:
Them I quit without regret,
All my joy's in Colinet.
Strike up, then, the ruftic lay,
Crown with fports our bridal day;
May each lad a mistress find,
Like my Betfey, fair and kind,
And each lafs a husband get,
Fond and true as Colinet.

Ring the bells, and fill the bowl,
Revel all without controu).
May the fun ne'er rife or fet,
But with joy to happy Bet,
And her faithful Colinet.

THE GENEROUS DISTRESS.

BLOW, ye bleak winds, around my head,

And foothe my heart-corroding care, Flash round my brows, ye lightnings red, And biaft the laurels planted there! But may the maid, where'er fhe be, Think not of my diftrefs nor me.

May all the traces of our love

Be ever blotted from her mind;
May from her breast my vows remove,
And so remembrance leave behind!
But may the maid, &c.,

Oh! may I ne'er behold her more,
For fhe has robb'd my soul of reft,
Wisdom's affiftance is too poor

To calm the tempeft in my breaft!
But may the maid, &c.

Come, death! O come, thou friendly sleep,

And with my forrows lay me low; And should the gentle virgin weep,

Nor fharp, nor lafting be her woe: But may the think, where'er the be, No more of my diftrefs nor me.

SONG 1095.
NOW the happy knot is ty'd,

Betfey is my charming bride;
Ring the bells, and fill the bowl,
Revel all without controul.
Who fo fair as lovely Bet!
Who fo bleft as Colinet!

Now adieu to maiden arts,
Angling for unguarded bearts;
Welcome Hymen's lasting joys,
Lifping, wanton, girls and boys:
Girls as fair as lovely Bet,
Boys as fweet as Colinet.

Tho' ripe fheaves of yellow corn
Now my plenteous barn adorn;
Tho' I've deck'd my myrtle-bow'rs,
With the faireft, fweeteft flow'rs:
Riper, fairer, fweeter yet,
Are the charms of lovely Bet.
Tho' on Sundays I was seen,
Dreis'd like any May-day quoen;

Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. THE rooks in the neighb'ring grove. For fhelter cry all the long day; Their huts, in the branches above, Are cover'd no longer by May. The birds that fo chearfully fung,

Are filent, or plaintive each tone, And as they chirp low to their young, The want of their goddefs bemoan. No daifies on carpets of green,

O'er nature's cold bofom are fpread; Not a fweet-brier fprig can be feen

To furnish fresh wreaths for my head: Some flow'rs indeed may be found,

But these neither blooming nor gay; The fairest ftill fleep in the ground, And wait for the coming of May.

December perhaps has purloin'd

Her rich, though fantastical gear, With envy the month's may have join'd, And jostled her out of the year. Some thepherds, 'tis true, may repine To fee their lov'd gardens undreft, But I, while my Phillida's mine, Shall always have May in my breast.

SONG 1097.

PERHAPS it is not love, said I,

That melts my foul when Flavia's nigh: Where wit and fenfe like her's agree, One may be pleas'd, and yet be free. The beauties of her polish'd mind, It needs no lover's eye to find ;The hermit freezing in his cell Might with the gentle Flavia well. It is not love-averfe to bear The fervile chain that lovers wear; Let, let me all my fears remove, My doubts difpel-it is not loveOh! when did wit fo brightly fhine In any form lefs fair than thine ?

It is it is love's fubtle fire,
And under friendship lurks defire.

SONG 1098.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE. YE gentle nymphs and generous dames, That rule o'er every British mind; Be fure you foothe their amorous fames, Be fure your laws are not unkind.

For hard it is to wear their bloom

In unremitting fighs away; To mourn the night's oppreffive gloom, And faintly blefs the rifing day. And cruel 'twere a free-born fwain, A British youth should vainly moan; Who fcornful of a tyrant's chain,

Submits to yours, and yours alone. No pointed fpear, nor links of fteel,

Could e'er thofe gallant minds fubue, Who beauty's wounds with pleasure feel, And boaft the fetters wrought by you.

SONG 1099. Written by Mr. SHENSTONE. ON every tree, in every plain,

I trace the jovial fpring in vain! A fickly languor veils mine eyes, And faft my waning vigour flies. Nor flow'ry plain, nor budding tree, That fmile on others, fmile on me; Mine eyes from death fhall court repofe, Nor shed a tear before they close. What blifs to me can feafons bring! Or, what the needlefs pride of fpring! The cyprefs bough, that fuits the bier, Retains it's verdure all the year. 'Tis true, my vine fo fresh and fair, Might claim'awhile my wonted care; My rural ftore fome pleafure yield; So white a flock, fo green a field! My friends, that each in kindness vie, Might well expect one parting figh; Might well demand one tender tear; For when was Damon intincere ? But ere I ask once more to view Yon fetting fun his race renew, Inform me, fwains, my friends declare, Will pitying Delia join the prayer?

With ev'ry fhining virtue
The lovely maid is grac'd.
In modest, plain apparel,

No patches, paint, nor airs;
In debt alone to nature,
An angel fhe appears.

From gay coquettes, high-finish"¿,
My Chloe takes no rules;
Nor envies them their conquefts,
The hearts of all the fools.
Who wins her muft have merit,
Such merit as her own;
The graces all poffeffing,

Yet knows not he has one.

Then grant me, gracious heav'ns The gifts you most approve; And Chloe, charming Chloe, Will blefs me with her love.

SONG 1101.
Written by Mrs. BARBAULD.
AS near a weeping spring reclin'd,

The beauteous Araminta pin'd,
And mourn'd a falfe ungrateful youth;
While dying echoes caught the found,
And fpread the foft complaints around
Of broken vows and alter'd truth;
An aged thepherd heard her moan,
And thus in pity's kindest tone
Addrefs'd the loft, despairing maid;
Ceafe, ceafe, unhappy fair, to grieve,
For founds, tho' fweet, can ne'er relieve

A breaking heart by love betray'd.

Why shouldst thou wafte fuch precious showers, That fall like dew on wither'd flowers

But dying paffion ne'er reftor'd;
In beauty's empire is no mean,
And woman, either flave or queen,
Is quickly fcorn'd when not ador'd.
Thofe liquid pearls from either eye,
Which might an eastern empire buy,
Unvalued here and fruitless fail;
No art the feafon can renew
When love was young, and Damon true,
No tears a wandering heart recall.
Ceafe, ceafe to grieve, thy tears are vain,
Should thofe fair orbs in drops of rain
Vie with a weeping fouthern fky;
For hearts o'ercome with love and grief
All nature yields but one relief;
Die, hapless Araminta, die.

SONG I 102.

THE FREE MASON'S GARLAND.

GOOD people, draw near,

And the truth you fhall bear, I fcorn to put any grimace on; You've been bamm'd long enough, With the dd filly stuff, Of a free and accepted mason.

The dear brotherhood
(As they certainly should)
Their follies do put a good face on ;
Tho' 'tis nought but a gin,
To catch other fools in,
So fly is an accepted mason.

With aprons before 'em,
For better decorum,

Of fecrets they talk, 'twou'd amaze one.
In aprons array'd

Of calves leather made,

True type of an accepted mason.

Their folly fo great is

Rilum teneatis?

And their title to fuch they would blazen;
That they'd trace from the flood,
Their rife, if they cou'd,
And make Noah- an accepted mafon.

If on houfe ne'er fo high,
A brother they ĺpy,

As his trowel he dext'rously lays on,
He must leave off his work,
And come down with a jerk,
At the fign of an accepted mafon.

They know this and that,
The devil knows what,

And themselves they employ all their praife on:

But this by the bye

There's none that can lye

Like a free and accepted mafon.

A brother one time

Being hang'd for fome crime, All the brethren did ftupidly gaze on; They gave figns without end,` But-faft hung their friendLike a free and accepted mafon.

They tells us fine things,

How that lords, dukes, and kings,

Their myft'ries have put a good grace on ;
For their credit be't faid,

Many a skip has been made

A free and accepted mafon.

From whence I conclude,

Tho't may feem fomewhat rude,

That no value their tribe we should place on; Since a fool, as we fee,

Of any degree.

May commence free and accepted mason.

I have pleasure more divine,
Woman, woman, woman's mine.
Raptures more than folly know,
More than fortune can beftow;
Flowing bowls and conquer'd fields,
Woman, woman, woman yields.
Ask me not of woman's arts,
Broken vows and faithlefs hearts;
Tell the wretch, who pines and grieves,
Woman, woman, woman lives.

All delights the heart can know,
More than folly can bestow;
Wealth of worlds and crowns of kings,
Woman, woman, woman brings.

SONG 1104.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE. THE lovely Delia fmiles again!

That killing frown has left her brow

Can the forgive my jealous pain,
And give me back my angry vow?
Love is an April's doubtful day:
Awhile we see the tempeft lour?
Anon the radiant heav'ns furvey,

And quite forget the flitting fhow'r.
The flow'rs that hung their languid head,
Are burnish'd by the tranfient rains;
The vines their wonted tendrils fpread,
And double verdure gilds the plains.
The fprightly birds, that droop'd no lefs
Beneath the pow'r of rain and wind,
In every raptur'd note exprefs
The joy I feel when thou art kind.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

MY days have been fo wondrous free,
The little birds that fly,

With careless cafe from tree to tree,
Were but as bleft as J.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increas'd their stream;
Or ask the gentle gales, if e'er
I lent a figh to them.

But now my former days retire,

And I'm by beauty caught;
The tender chains of foft defice
Are fix'd upon my thought;
And eager hope, within my breaft,
Does ev'ry doubt controul,
And lovely Nancy ftands confefs'd
The fav'rite of my foul.

Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines,
Ye fwains that haunt the grove,
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds,
Ye clofe retreats of love;
With all of nature, all of art,

Aflift the dear defign!

O, teach a young, unpractis'd heart, To make her ever mine.

The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of despair;
And hardly covet to be great

Unless it be for her:

Tis true, the paffion in my mind

Is mix'd with foft diftrefs;
Yet, while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it lefs.

But if he treats me with difdain,
And flights my well-meant love,
Or looks with pleasure on my pain,
A pain fhe won't remove;
Farewel, ye birds, ye lonely pines,
Adieu to groans and fighs;
I'll leave my paffion to the winds,
Love unreturn'd foon dies.

Behold the gay rose,
How lovely it grows,
Secure in the depth of the vale!
Yon oak, that on high
Afpires to the sky,

Both lightning and tempefts affail.
DUETTO.

Then let us the fnare

Of ambition beware, That fource of vexation and smart; And fport on the glade,

And repofe in the shade, With health and with quiet of heart.

SONG 1108.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE. WHEN bright Roxana treads the green,

Averfe to freedom, love and play,
In all the pride of drefs and mien;
None other beauties ftrike mine eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.

But when, disclaiming art, the fair
Affumes a soft engaging air;
Mild as the opening morn of May,
Familiar, friendly, free and gay:
The scene improves, where'er the goes,
More fweetly fmile the pink and rofe.

O lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor deem thy fhepherd infincere;
Pity a wild illufive flame,
That varies objects still the fame :
And let their very changes prove
The never-vary'd force of love.

SONG 1109.

VALENTINE'S DAY.
Written by Mr. SHENSTONE.

'TIS faid that under distant skies,
Nor you the fa&t deny ;
What first attracts an Indian's eyes
Becomes his deity.

Perhaps a lily, or a rofe,

That fhares the morning's ray,
May to the waking fwain difclofe
The regent of the day.
Perhaps a plant in yonder grove,

Enrich'd with fragrant pow'r,
May tempt his vagrant eyes to rove,

Where blooms the fov'reign flow'r. Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough, And gay with gilded wings, Perchance, the patron of his vow, Some artless linnet fings.

The fwain furveys her pleas'd, afraid, Then low to earth h

ends;

And owns upon her friendly aid, His health, his life depends.

Their notes are remarkably fweet';' The villagers brought all the honours of fpring, And fcatter'd their pride at her feet. With ribbands and roles her lambkins are crown'd,

Awhile they refpe&tfully ftand,

There rofes and jefs'mine each other shall greet, And mingle to copy your hue;

The lily, to match with thy boforn fo fweet, How faint it's refemblance to you.

With the tweets of your breath, the hedgeviolet shall vie,

But weakly, and pay it it's due;

But firft take a kifs from her hand.

eye,

Yet nature paints nothing like you.

The truth of my well-belov'd fhe; Whole branch, if to touch it bold shepherds

fhall dare,

Would fhrink from all others but me.

SONG 1113.

THE FRUITLESS ENDEAVOUR.

WHEN gentle Harriot first I faw,

Struck with a reverential awe,

I felt my bofom mov'd: Her eafy fhape, her charming face; She fmil'd, and talk'd with fo much grace; I gaz'd, admir'd, and lov'd.

Up to the busy town I flew,

And wander'd all it's pleasures thro',

In hopes to ease my care:
The bury town but mocks my pain,
It's gayet pleasures all are vain,
For Ha riot haunts me there.

The labours of the learned fage,
The comic clamour of the ftage,
By turns my time employ;

I relish not the fage's lore,
The ftage's humours please no more,
For Harriot's all my joy.

Sometimes I try'd the jovial throng,
Sometimes the female train among,

To chace her form away:
The jovial throng is noify, rude,
Nor other females dare intrude,

Where Harriot bears the fway.