To whom he hath told wondrous things
Of time forepaft, and gone,
And to the princes of the world
Declares his cause of moan.
Defiring ftill to be diffolv'd,

And yield his mortal breath;
But, if the Lord hath thus decreed,
He fhall not yet fee death.
For neither looks he old nor young,
But as he did thofe times,
When Chrift did fuffer on the cross

For mortal finners crimes.

He hath past through many a foreign place,
Arabia, Egypt, Africa,
Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace,
And throughout all Hungaria:
Where Paul and Peter preached Chrift,
Those bleft apoftles dear;

There he hath told our Saviour's words,
In countries far and near.

And lately in Bohemia,

With many a German town; And now in Flanders, as 'tis thought, He wandereth up and down: Where learned men with him confer Of thofe his lingering days, And wonder much to hear him tell His journies, and his ways.

If people give this Jew an alms,

The most that he will take Is not above a groat a time:

Wdich he, for Jesus' fake, Will kindly give unto the poor, And thereof make no (pare, Affirming still that Jefus Chrift Of him hath daily care.

He ne'er was feen to laugh nor fmile, But weep and make great moan; Lamenting fill his miferies,

And days forepaft and gone: If he hear any one blafpheme,

Or take God's name in vain,
He tells them that they crucify
Their Saviour Chrift again.

If you had feen his death, faid he,
As thefe mine eyes have done,
Ten thousand thousand times would ye
His torments think upon :
And fuffer for his fake all pain

Of torments and all woe.
These are his words and eke his life,
Whereas he comes or goes.

SONG 1116.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE. O'ER defert plains, and rufhy meers, And wither'd heaths I rove; Where tree nor fpire, nor cot appears, Į pass to meet my love.

Written by the Earl of ROCHESTER. MY dear mistress has a heart,

Soft as thofe kind locks he gave me,
When with love's refiftlefs art,
And her eyes, the did enflave me:
But her conftancy's fo weak,

She's fo wild and apt to wander,
That my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day afunder.
Melting joys about her move,
Wounding pleasures, killing bliffes,
She can dress her eyes in love,
And her lips can arm with kiffes;
Angels liften when the fpeaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder,
But my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day afunder.

SONG 1118.

WHEN charming Teraminta fings,
Each new air, new paffion brings;

Now I refolve, and now I fear;
Now I triumph, now despair;
Frolic now, now faint I grow;
Now I freeze, and now I glow.
The panting zephyrs round her play,
And trembling on her lips would stay;

Now would liften, now would kifs,
Trembling with divided blifs;
Till, by her breath repuls'd, they fly,
And in low pleasing murmurs die.
Nor do I ask that he would give
By fome new note, the pow'r to live;
I would, expiring with the found,
Die on the lips that gave the wound.

WHEN here, Lucinda, first we came,
Where Arno rolls his filver ftream,
How blithe the nymphs, the fwains how gay!
Content infpir'd each rural lay:
The birds in livelier concert fung,
The grapes in thicker clusters hung;
All look'd as joy could never fail
Among the fweets of Arno's Vale.

But fince the good Pamelon died,
The chief of thepherds, and their pride,
Now Arno's fons muft all give place
To northern men, an iron race:
The taste of pleasure now is o'er;
Thy notes, Lucinda, please no more;
The Mufes droop, the Goths prevail;
Adieu the fweets of Arno's Vale!

STREPHON, when you see me fly,
Let not this your fear create,
Maids may be as often thy
Out of love as out of hate;
When from you I fly away,
It is becaufe I dare not stay.
Did I out of hatred run

Lefs you'd be my pain and care;
But the youth I love, to fhun,

Who can fuch a trial bear? Who, that fuch a swain did fee, Who could love and fly like me?

Cruel duty bids me go,

Gentle love commands me ftay;
Duty's ftill to love a foe,

Shall I this or that obey?
Duty frowns, and Cupid's fmiles,
That defends, and this beguiles.
Ever by thefe crystal streams

I could fit and hear thee figh,
Ravifh'd with thefe pleafing dreams

O'tis worse than death to fly:
But the danger is fo great,
Fear gives wings, inftead of hate.
Strephon, if you love me, leave me,
If you ftay I am undone¡

TIS not the liquid brightness of thofe eyes,
That (wim with pleature and delight;
Nor those fair heavenly arches which arife
Q'er each of them to thade their light;
'Tis not that hair which plays with every wind,
And loves to wanton round thy face;
Now ftraying o'er thy forehead, now behind
Retiring with infidious grace.

'Tis not that lovely range of teeth, as white
As new-fhorn sheep, equal and fair;
Nor even that gentle fmile, the heart's delight,
With which no fmile could e'er compare;
'Tis not that chin fo round, that neck fo fine,
Those breasts that fwell to meet my love;
That eafy floping waift, that form divine,
Nor aught below, nor aught above.

Tis not the living colours over each,
By nature's finest pencil wrought,

To shame the fresh-blown rofe, and blooming peach,

And mock the happiest painter's thought; But 'tis that gentle mind, that ardent love, So kindly answering my defire;

That grace with which you look, and speak,

The nymph reply'd-You firft, my swain,
Confine your fonnets to the plain;
One envious tongue alike difarms,
You, of your wit, me, of my charms.

What is, unknown, the poet's skill?
Or what, unheard, the tuneful thrill?
What, unadmir'd, a charming mien ?
Or what the rofe's blush, unfeen?

Girls grow old and ugly,

And can't infpire
The fame defire,

As when they're young and fmugly. Variety, &c.