SONG 1133.

DAPHNE'S VISIT.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE. YE birds! for whom I rear'd the grove, With melting lay falute my love: My Daphne with your notes detain: Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.

Ye flow'rs! before her footsteps rife ;
Difplay at once your brightest dyes;
That the your opening charms may fee :
Or what were all your charms to me ?.

Kind zephyr brush each fragrant flow'r,
And thed it's odours round my bow'r :
Or never more, O gentle wind,
Shall I, from thee, refreshment find.

Ye ftreams! if e'er your banks I lov'd,
If e'er your native founds improv'd,
May each foft murmur foothe my fair:
Or, oh! 'twill deepen my defpair.

And thou, my grot! whofe lonely bounds
The melancholy pine furrounds,
May Daphne praife thy peaceful gloom,
Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb!

SONG 1134.

MAKE HAY WHILST THE SUN SHINES.

'TIS a maxim I hold, whilst I live to purfue,

Nota thing to defer, which to-day I can do: This piece of good countei attend to, I pray, For while the fun fhines is the time to make hay.

Attend the dear nymph to an arbour or grove, In her ear gently pour the foft poifon of love: With kiffes and preffes your rapture convey, For while the fun thines is the time to make hay.

If Chloe is kind, and gives ear to your plaint, Declare your whole fentiments free from reftraint:

Enforce your petition, and make no delay,
For while the fun thines is the time to make hay

But fhould you the prefent occafion let pafs,
The world may with justice proclaim you an afs:
Then brifkly attack her, if longer you stay,
The fun may not fhine,and you cannot make hay.

SONG 1135.

Sung in Comas. WOULD you taste the noon-tide air,

To yon fragrant bow'r repair,
Were woven with the poplar bough,
The mantling vine will shelter you.
Down each fide a fountain flows,
Tinkling, murm'ring, as it goes,
Lightly o'er the molly ground,
Sultry Phoebus fcorching roung.
Round the languid herds, and theep,
Stretch'd o'er funny hillocks, fleep,
While on the hyacinth and rofe,
The fair does all alone repofe;
All alone; yet in her arms

Your breast hall beat to love's alarms,
Till, biest and blefling, you shall own,
The joys of love are joys alone.

Written by Mr. OTWAY. COME all ye youths whofe hearts e'er bled By cruel beauty's pride;

Bring each a garland on his head,

Let none his forrows hide:
But hand in hand around me move,
Singing the faddeft tales of love;
And fee, when your complaints ye join,
If all your wrongs can equal mine.

The happiest mortal once was I,

My heart no forrows knew; Pity the pain with which I die,

But afk not whence it grew: Yet if a tempting fair you find, That's very lovely, very kind,

Tho' bright as Heaven whofe ftamp fhe bears, Think of my fate, and thun her fares.

SONG 1137.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE. ADIEU, ye jovial youths, who join

To plunge old care in floods of wine; And, as your dazzled eye-balls roll, Difcern him ftruggling in the bowl.

Not yet is hope fo wholly flown, Not yet is thought fo tedious grown, Butʼlimpid stream, and shady tree, Retain, as yet, fome tweets for me.

And fee, thro' yonder filent grove,
See yonder does my Daphne rove:
With pride her foot-fteps I purfue,
And bid your frantic joys adieu.

The fole confufion I admire,
Is that my Daphne's eyes infpire:
I fcorn the madness you approve,
And value reafon next to love.

SONG 1138.

Sung in the Reprifal.

But when I knelt and told my pain,
With frowns the fent me back again,
And told me each returning day,
Wou'd help to wear t e chains away.

Since now, dear Phillis, thou art caught,
Pray use the precepts you have taught;
Convince me that your charms decay,
As each new hour rolls away;
Then I your dictates will pursue,
And die content as well as you.

SONG

1140.

I difguife,

I will freely defcribe the wretch I defpife; And if he has fenfe but to balance a straw, He will fure take a hint from the picture I draw.

A wit without fenfe, without fancy a beau, Like a parrot he chatters, and ftruts like a crow;

A peacock in pride, in grimace a baboon;
In courage a hind, in conceit a gafcoon.

As a vulture rapacious, in falfhood a fox,
Inconftant as waves, and unfeeling as rocks;
As a tyger ferocious, perverfe as a hog,
In mifchief an ape, and in fawning a dog.

In a word, to fum up all his talents together, His heart is of lead, and his brains are of feather:

Yet if he has but fenfe to balance a straw,

Chine feems inclin'd to reft; Fill her foul with fond defire, Pleafing dreams aflift in love, Softeft notes will footh her breast. Let them all propitious prove.

On the moffy bank the lies,

(Nature's verdant velvet-bed) Beauteous flowers meet her eyes,

Forming pillows for her head. Zephyrs waft their odours round, And indulging whifpers found.

Parody of 1140.

SONG 1141.

GENTLY ftir and blow the fire, Lay the mutton down to roaft: Get me, quick, 'tis my defire,

In the driping pan a toast,

SONG 1139.

PHILLIS, the goddefs of the plain,
Admir'd by ev'ry youthfu! fwain,
Who us'd to laugh at Cupid's dart,
And scorn each captivated heart;
To Strephon now hath giv'n her own.
And filent doth it's lofs bemoan.

Tho' now 'tis past, there was a time, When I lov'd her, as fhe loves him:

Mutton is the meat I love.

On the dreffer fee it lies;

O the charming white and red!
Finer meat ne'er met my eyes,

On the sweetest grafs it fed:
Swiftly make the jack go round,
Let me have it nicely brown'd.
On the table fpread the cloth,
Let the knives be fharp and clean;
Pickles get of ev'ry fort,

And a fallad crisp and green:

Then with fmall beer, and fparkling wine, O, ye gods! how I fhall dine!

B

Altered by Mr. T. B.

ALOW, my boy, lie till and fleep, It grieves me fore to hear thee weep; If thou'lt be filent, I'll be glad,

Thy mourning makes my heart full fad.
Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy,
Thy father bred me great annoy.
Balow, my boy, &c.

Balow, my darling, fleep awhile,

And when thou wak'ft then fweetly fmile;
But fmile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
For in thine eye his lock I fee,
The tempting look that ruin'd me."
Balow, my boy, &c.

When he began to court my love,
And with his fugar'd words to move,
His tempting face, and flatt'ring chear,
In time to me did not appear;
But now I fee, that cruel he
Cares neither for his babe nor me.

Balow my boy, &c.
Farewel, farewel, thou falfeft youth
That ever fwerv'd from facred truth,
Oh! may no maiden, after me,
Submit unto thy courtesy:
For, if the does, O! cruel thou,
Wilt her abufe, and care not how.

Balow my boy, &c.

I was too ready to believe,

Nor thought thou ever couldft deceive:
You fwore for ever true to prove,
Thy faith unchang'd, unchang'd thy love;
But, quick as thought, the change is wrought,
Thy love's no more, thy promife nought.
Balow my boy, &c.

I wish I were a maid again,
From young men's flatt'ry I'd refrain,
For now unto my grief I find,
They all are perjur'd and unkind:
Bewitching charms bred all my harms,
Witness my babe within my arms.
Balow my boy, &c.

A parent's fond anxiety,

My hapless infant, hangs o'er thee.
I'll fold thee clofe within my arms,
And fondly dwell o'er all thy charms.
Then reft, my darling, free from fear,
No rude alarm can reach thee here.
Balow, my boy, &c.

Balow, my boy, weep not for me,
Whofe greatest pain is wronging thee;
Nor, if you rife to man's eftate,
Mourn an imprudent mother's fate:
Too foon, alas! that mother finds,
With faireft tongues are falfest minds.
Balow, my boy, &c.

Balow, my boy, thy father's fled,
Who dragg'd perdition on my head.
Of vows and oaths forgetful, he
Preferr'd the wars to thee and me.
Who knows but there fome stroke divine
May make him feel thy curfe and mine.
Balow, my boy, &c.

Ah, why our curfe! perhaps now he,
Stung with remorfe, is blefling thee:
Perhaps at death; for who can tell
Whether the Judge of heaven and hell,
By fome proud foe has ftruck the blow,
And laid the dear deceiver low.

Balow, my boy, &c.

SONG 1143.

Written by Mrs. TAYLOR.

STREPHON has fafhion, wit and youth,
With all things elfe that pleafe;

He nothing wants but love and truth
To ruin me with eafe:

But he is flint, and bears the art

To kindle ftrong defire;

His pow'r inflames another's heart,
Yet he ne'er feels the fire.

O! how it does my foul pe plex,
When I his charms recal,
To think he should defpife the fex,

Or worse, fhould love 'em all.
My wearied heart, like Noah's dove,
Thus feeks in vain for rest;
Finding no hope to fix it's love,
Returns into my breast.

SONG 1144.

TELL my Strephon that I die;

Let echoes to each other teil, Till the mournful accents fly

To Strephon's ear, and all is well. But gently breathe the fatal truth, And foften every hasher found, For Strephon's such a tender youth,

The fofteft words too deep will wound.

Now fountains, echoes, all be dumb;
For fhould I coft my twain a tear,
I should repent it in my tomb,
And grieve I bought my rest so dear.

SONG 1145.

Written by Mr. TOMLINS.

WHAT charms does my Laura difclofe!
What beauties her perfon adorn 1
She is fweet as the new-budded rofe,
And foft as the dew of the morn.

Her air, how engagingly sweet!

What melody flows from her tongue! In her all the graces have met;

She is fair, he is blooming, fhe's young. The charms of her form, tho' fo bright, Are excell'd by the charms of her mind; There fenfe and good-nature unite; Politeness and eafe ale combin'd,

No frowns on her brow ever lour,
Soft pity prefides in her breast;
No paffions her temper to four;
Her foul is for ever at reft.

As the dove she is harmless and mild,
And like that she's devoid of all art ;
She is fweet fenfibility's child,

And innocence reigns in her heart, Ye pow'rs that prefide over love, With pity attend to my pray'r, And grant that my Laura may prove That the is not lefs kind than fhe's fain O would the my paffion approve,

Then I fhould fupremely be blest !

All the day would I fpend with my love, And at night I'd repofe on her breast.

SONG 1146.

Written by Mr. DRYDEN.

ON a bank, befide a willow,

Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,
Sad Aminta figh'd alone:

From the chearless dawn of morning,
Till the dews of night returning,

Singing, thus fhe made her moan;
Hope is banish'd,
Joys are vanifh'd,

Damon, my belov'd, is gone.

Time, I dare thee to difcover
Such a youth, and fuch a lover:

Oh! fo true, fo kind was he
Damon was the price of nature,
Charming in his every feature,
Damon liv'd alone for me;
Melting kiffes,
Murmuring bliffes,
Who fo liv'd and lov'd as we!
Never fhall we curfe the morning,
Never blefs the night returning,

Sweet embraces to restore;
Never fhall we both lie dying,
Nature failing, love fupplying

All the joys he drain'd before:
Death come end me,
To befriend me;
Love and Damon are no more!

But female fays fhall haunt the green,
And drefs thy grave with pearly dew.
The red-breaft oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary mofs, and gather'd flow'rs,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds and beating rain
In tempefts shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'miaft the chafe upon the plain

The tender thought on thee fhall dwell. Each lonely fcene fhall thee reftore, For thee the tear be duly fhed; Belov'd, till life can charm no mɔre, And mourn'd, till pity's felf be dead.

SONG 1148.

Written by Sir RICHARD STEELE. FROM place to place, forlorn, I go, With downcaft eyes, a filent shade; Forbidden to declare my woe;

To fpeak, till fpoken to, afraid. My inward pangs, my fecret grief, My foft confenting looks betray; He loves, but gives me no relief; Why speaks not he who may?

SONG 1149. THERE is one dark and fullen hour,

Which fate decrees our lives fhould know, Elfe we fhould flight th' Almighty power, Wrapt in the joys we find below:

'Tis paft, dear Cynthia, now let frowns be gone, A long, long penance I have done For crimes, alas! to me unknown.

In each foft hour of filent night

Your image in my dream appears;

I grafp the foul of my delight,

Slumber in joys, but wake in tears: Ah! faithlefs, charming faint, what will you do? Let me not think I am, by you, Lov'd lefs for being true.

SONG 1150.

FAIR, and fof, and gay, and young,
All charms fhe play'd, the danc'd, the fung,
There was no way to 'fcape the dart,
No care could guard the lover's heart.
Ah! why, cry'd I, and dropt a tear,
(Adoring, yet despairing e'er
To have her to myself alone)
Was fo much fweetnefs made for one?

But growing bolder, in her ear
1 in foft numbers told my care:
She heard, and rais'd me from her feet,
And feem'd to glow with equal heat.
Like heaven's, too mighty to exprefs,
My joys could but be known by guess!
Ah! fool, faid 1, what have I done,
To with her made for more than one?

But long I had not been in view,
Before her eyes their beams withdrew;
Ere I had reckon'd half her charms,
She funk into another's arms.

But the that once could faithless be,
Will favour him no more than me:
He, too, will find himself undone,
And that he was not made for one.

SONG 1151..

Written by Mr. HAMILTON.

YE fhepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain,

Approach from your sports, and attend to my ftrain;

Amongst all your number a lover so true
Was ne'er fo undone with fuch blifs in his view.

Was ever a nymph fo hard-hearted as mine? She knows me fincere, and the fees how I pine; She does not difdain me,nor frown in her wrath, But calmly and mildly refigns me to death.

She calls me her friend, but her lover denies ; She fmiles when I'm chearful, but hears not my fighs.

A bofom fo flinty, fo gentle an air,

Infpires me with hope, and yet bids me despair.

I fall at her feet, and implore her with tears; Her anfwer confounds, while her manner endears:

When fof:ly the tells me to hope no relief,
My trembling lips blefs her, in fpite of my grief.

By night, when I flumber, ftill haunted with

care,

I ftart up in anguish, and figh for the fair: The fair fleeps in peace, may the ever do fo! And only when dreaming imagine my woe.

Then gaze at a distance, nor farther aspire, Nor think he could love whom the cannot admire :

Huh all thy complaining, and dying her flave, Commend her to heaven, thyself to the grave.

SONG 1152.

THO' cruel you seem to my pain,

And hate me because I am true; Yet, Phyllis, you love a falfe fwain, Who has other nymphs in his view.

Enjoyment's a trifle to him,

To me what a heaven 'twould be! To him but a woman you feem, But, ah! you're an angel to me. Thofe lips which he touches in hafte, To them I for ever could grow; Still clinging around that dear waist, Which he pans as beside him you go.