SONG 1154. YOUNG I am, and yet unfkill'd How to make a lover yield; How to keep, and how to gain, When to love, and when to feign. Take me, take me, fome of you, Stay not till I learn the way Could I find a blooming youth SONG 1155. Written by Sir CHARLES SEDLEY. DAMON, if you will believe me, 'Tis not fighing on the plain, Song nor fonnet can relieve ye Faint attempts in love are vain. Urge but home the fair occafion, 'Twere a madness not to yield. Love gives out a large commiffion, Still indulgent to the brave; But one fin of base omiftion Never woman yet forgave. Tho' fhe vows he'll ne'er permit ye, Cries, you're rude and much to blame, And with tears implores your pity; Be not merciful, for fhame. SONG 1156. EDWIN AND ITHELINDE. ONE parting kifs, my Ethelinde! I hear thy father's hafty tread, Beneath the well-known tree, She clafp'd the dear-beloved youth, They kifs, they part; a lift'ning page O'erheard their talk, and to his lord The baron's brow grew dark with frowns, But know, rafh boy, thy bold attempt Nor e'er again, ignoble maid, Shalt thou thy lover view. The dews of evening fast did fall, When Ethelinde, with beating breaft, With eager eye fhe looks around, He was not wont to break his faith, Her heart beat thick at ev'ry noise, Each ruffling thro' the wood; And now the travers'd quick the ground, And now the lift'ning stood. Enliv'ning hope, and chilling fear, By turns her bosom share; And now the calls upon his name, Now weeps in fad despair. Meantime the day's laft glimm'rings fled; And, blackening all the fky, A hideous tempeft dreadful rofe, And thunders roll'd on high. Poor Ethelinde aghaft, difmay'd, Beholds with wild affright The threat'ning sky, the lonely wood, And horrors of the night. Where art thou now, my Edwin dear? Thus rack'd with pangs, and beat with storms, Now looks to heaven with earnest pray'r, At length a diftant taper's ray Struck beaming on her fight; Thro' brakes fhe guides her fainting steps An aged hermit peaceful dwelt He ope'd his hofpitable door, The tender virgin's graceful form, He faw the heart-wrung ftarting tear, The story of her woe. Scarce had he told her mournful tale, Help, father! help, they loudly cry, All deadly pale they lay him down, And gash'd with many a wound; With frantic grief poor Ethelinde That much-lov'd found recals his life, Stupid awhile, in dumb defpair She gaz'd on Edwin dead; Dim grew her eyes, her lips turn'd pale, SONG 1157. Sung in Comus. MORTALS, learn your lives to measure, Mortals, learn your lives to meafure, SONG 1158. Written by Mr. EATON. TELL me not I my time mispend, 'Tis time loft to reprove me; Purfue thou thine, I have my end, So Chloris only prize me. Tell me not other's flocks are full, Tire others' eafier ears with thefe He never feels the world's difeafe, Who cares not for her glories. For pity, thou that wiser art, Whofe thoughts lie wide of mine, Let me alone with my own heart, And I'll ne'er envy thine. Nor blame him, whoe'er blames my wit, To you SONG 1159. Written by Mr. CONGREVE. I Tell thee, Charmion, could I time retrieve, For by our weak and weary truth, I find, SONG 1160. Written by Mr. ETHERIDGE. YE happy fwains whofe hearts are free. Fly the fair fex, if blifs you prize, The fnake's beneath the flow'r; Written by Dr. PERCY. Nancy, wilt thou go with me, Nor figh to leave the flaunting town? Can filent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and ruffet gown? No longer dreft in fiken heen, No longer deck'd with jewels rare, Say, canft thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert faireft of the fair? O Nancy! when thou'rt far away, Wilt thou not caft a wifh behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? O can that foft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor, fad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou were fairest of the fair? O Nancy! canft thou love fo true, Thro' perils keen with me to go; Or when thy fwain mishap fhall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, fhould disease or pain befal, Wilt thou affume the nurfe's care; Nor, wistful, thofe gay fcenes recal Where thou wert faireft of the fair? VAIN are the charms of white and red, Which paint the blooming fair; Give me the nymph whofe fnow is spread Of smoother cheeks the winning grace But in the wrinkles of her face If naked eyes fet hearts on blaze, Nor rivals, nor the train of years, |