Thou'rt right, fays old Jove, let us hence to the earth,

Men and gods think variety fine; Who'd stay in the clouds, when good-nature and mirth

Are below, with wit, women, and wine?

SONG gr.

THE FORSAKEN NYMPH..

GUARDIAN Angels, now protect me,
Send, ah! fend the youth I love ;
Deign, O Cupid, to direct me,
Lead me thro' the myrtle grove,
Bear my fighs, foft-floating air,
Say I love him to defpair;
Tell him 'tis for him I grieve,
For him alone I wish to live.

'Mid fecluded dells I'll wander,
Silent as the fhades of night,
Near fome bubbling rili's meander
Where he erft has bleft my fight;
There to weep the night away,
There to wafte in fighs the day.

Think, fond youth, what vows you swore,
And muft I never fee thee more?
Then reclufe fhall be my dwelling,
Deep in fome fequefter'd vale;
There with mournful cadence Swelling
Oft repeat my love-fick tale:
And the lark and Philomel
Oft fhall hear a virgin tell
What the pain to bid adieu
To joy, to happinefs, and you.

SONG 92.

THE TRANSFORMATION.

WHOEVER with curious eye has rang'd Thro' Ovid's tales, has feen

How Jove, incens'd, to monkies chang'd

A tribe of worthless men.

Repentant foon, th' offending race
Intreat the injur'd pow`r,

To give them back the human face,
And reafon's aid reftore.

Jove, footh'd at length, his ear inclin'd,
And granted half their pray'r;
But t'other half he bid the wind

Difperfe in empty air.
Scarce had the thund'rer giv'n the nod,
That shook the vaulted skies,
With haughtier air the creatures ftrode,
And ftretch'd their dwindled fize.
The hair in curls luxurious now

Around their temples fpread;
The tail, that whilom hung below,
Now dangled from the head.
The head remains unchang'd within,
Nor alter'd much the face,
It still retains it's native grin,
And all it's old grimace.

Thus half transform'd, and half the fames
Jove bade them take their place,
Reftoring them their ancient claim
Among the human race.

Man with contempt the brute furvey'd,
Nor would a name bestow;
But woman lik'd the motley breed,
And call'd the thing a beau.

SONG 93..

Sung in the Metamorphofes,
AH, dear Marcella! maid divine,
No more will I at fate repine,
If I this day behold thee mine,
For dearly do I love thee.

Thy ease shall be my fweet employ,
My conftant care, my ev'ry joy;

May then no chance my hopes defroy,
For dearly do I love thee.

Sweet is the woodbine to the bee,
The rifing fun to ev'ry tree,,
But fweeter far art thou to me,

For dearly do I love thee..
And let me but behold thee mine,
No more will I at fate repine,
But while I live, thou maid divine,
With rapture will I love thee.

SONG 94.

Written by Dr. GOLDSMITH. WHEN lovely woman ftoops to folly,

And finds, too late, that men betray; What charms can foothe her melancholy? What art can watch her guilt away? The only art, her guilt to cover,TM To hide her flame from ev'ry eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bofom-is to die!

SONG 95.

A BACCHANALIAN SONG.

MY temples with clusters of grapes I'll extwine,

And barter all joy for a goblet of wine;
In fearch of a Venus no longer I'll run,
But ftop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.
Yet why this refolve to relinquish the fair?
'Tis a folly with fpirits like mine to defpair;
For what mighty charms can be found in a glass,
If not fill'd with the health of fame favourite
lafs ?

'Tis woman whofe charms ev'ry rapture impart,
And lend a new fpring to the pulfe of the heart:
The mifer himself (fo fupreme is her sway)
Grows convert to love, and refigns her his key,
At the found of her voice, forrow lifts up her

head,

And poverty liftens, well pleas'd, from her shed;

While age, in an extafy, hobbling along, Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her fong.

Then bring me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard, The largest and deepest that ftands on the board; I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair; "Tis the thirst of a lover, and pledge me who dare.

SONG 96.

Sung in Love in a Village.

LET gay ones, and great,

Make the most of their fate, From pleasure to pleasure they run; Well, who cares a jot? I envy them not,

While I have my dog and my gun.

For exercise, air,
To the fields I repair,
With fpirits unclouded and light;
The bliffes I find,

No ftings leave behind,
But health and diverfion unite.

SONG 97.
Sung in the Election.

WHILE happy in my native land,
I boaft my country's charter;
I'll never bafely lend my hand,
Her liberties to barter.

The noble mind is not at all
By poverty degraded;

'Tis guilt alone can make us fall,

And well I am perfuaded,

Each free-born Briton's fong fhould be,

Or give me death or liberty.

Tho' small the pow'r which fortune grants, And few the gifts the fends us;

The lordly hireling often wants

That freedom that defends us.

By law fecured from lawless ftrife,

Our house is our caftellum.
Thus blefs'd with all that's dear in life,

For lucre, fhall we fell 'em?
No ev'ry Briton's fong should be,
Or give me death or liberty.

SONG 98.

ADVICE TO THE LADIES.

YE fair, be advis'd by a friend,

Whofe counfel proceeds from the heart, On beauty no longer depend,

Or fly to the efforts of art:

If a shepherd you'd gain to your arms,
Let virtue each action approve;
Her charms the fond bofom alarms,
And foftens the foul into love.

To-day be not nice as a bride,
To-morrow untimely fevere;
Let prudence and truth be your guide;
Nor caprice nor folly appear:
Unless you thus govern your mind,

And banish deceit from your breast,
Too foon by experience you'll find,
Inconftancy ne'er can be bleft.
Neglected you'll wither and fade,
Till beauty, by age, fhall decay;
Then lonely retreat to the fhade,
And mourn the fad hours away:
How defp'rate will then be your fate,
How great your fad lofs to deplore!
Repentance, alas! is too late,

When the power to charm is no more.

SONG 99.

Sung in the Christmas Tale.

MY eyes may speak pleasure,
Tongue flow without measure,
Yet my heart in my bofom lies ftill;
Thus the river is flowing,
The mill-clapper going,
But the miller's afleep in the mill.
Tho' lovers furround me,
With fpeeches confound me,
Yet my heart in my bofom lies ftill;
Thus the river is flowing,

The mill-clapper going,

But the miller's afleep in the mill. The little god eyes me,

And means to furprize me, But my heart is awake in my breast; Thus boys flily creeping,

To catch a bird fleeping,

But the linnet's awake in his neft.

WHAT IS THAT TO YOU; A SCOTCH SONG. Sung at VAUXHALL,

MY Jeany and I have toil'd

The live-long fummer's day,
Till we were almoft fpoil'd,
At making of the hay.
Her kerchy was of holland clear,
Ty'd to her bonny brow;
I whisper'd fomething in her ear;
But what is that to you?
Her ftockings were of kerfey green,
And tight as ony filk;

O, fic a leg was never feen!

Her fkin was white as milk.
Her hair was black as ane could with,
And sweet, sweet was her mou!
Ah! Jeany daintily can kifs;

But what is that to you?

The rofe and lily baith combine,

To make my Jeany fairt

There is nae benifon like mine,

I have amaist nae care. But when another swain, my fair, Shall fay you're fair to view; Let Jeany whifper in his ear, Pray what is that to you?

SONG 101.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

AH! where can one find a true (wain,
In whom a young nymph may confide?
Men are now fo conceited and vain,

They no longer have hearts to divide:
Or in court, or in city, or town,

All acknowledge how fruitless the fearch
So polite, too, each village is grown,
Even there girls are left in the lurch.

Then adieu to the thraldom of love,
Adieu to it's hopes and it's fear;
Henceforth in freedom will rove,

Who like it the willow may wear :
Yet fhould fortune, my truth to reward,
Send fome youth with each talent to bless,
How far I my purpofe could guard,

is a fecret I need not confefs.

SONG 103.

Sung at RANELAGH.

THE gaudy tulip fwells with pride,

And rears it's beauties to the fun,
With heav'n-born tints of Iris' bow;
While low the vi'let fprings befide,
As in the fhade it ftrives to fhun
The hand of fome rapacious foe.
Of worth intrinfic, fmall the ftore
That from the tulip can arife,

When parted from it's glowing bed:
While hid, the vi'let charms the more,
Like incenfe in it's native fkies,

When cropt to grace the virgin heal. Then think, ye fair-ones, how these flow'rs Are wrought in nature's various robe:

1

Where pride declines, and merit thrives Your virgin dignity o'er-pow'rs

The heroes of the conquer'd globe:
But fweet compliance makes ye wives.

SONG 104.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

THE faireft flow'rs the vale prefer, And shed ambrofial sweetness there; While the tall pine and mountain oak, Oft feel the tempeft's ruder stroke..

So in the lowly moss-grown fezt,

Dear peace and quiet dwell;

The ftorms that wreck the rich and great Fly o'er the shepherd's cell.

SONG 105.

Sung in the Oracle.

WOULD you with her you love be bleft,
Ye lovers, thefe instructions mind,
Conceal the paffion in your breaft,
Be dumb, infenfible, and blind:
But when with gentle looks you meet,
And fee the artless blushes rife,
Be filent, loving, and difcreet;
The oracle no more implies.

When once you prove the maid fincere,
Where virtue is with beauty join'd;
Then boldly like yourselves appear,
No more infenfible, or blind:
Pour forth the transports of your heart,
And fpeak your foul without difguile;
'Tis fondnefs, fondness must impart ;

The oracle no more implies.

Tho' pleafing, fatal is the fnare,

That ftill entraps all womankind;
Ladies, beware, be wife, take care,

Be deaf, infenfible, and blind :
But should fome fond deserving youth
Agree to join in Hymen's ties,
Be tender, conftant, crown his truth;
The oracle no more implies.

SONG 106.

Written by SOAME JENNYNS, Efq. TOO plain, dear youth, thefe tell-tale eyes My heart your own declare,

But for Heav'n's fake let it fuffice,
You reign triumphant there."
Forbear your utmost pow'r to try,
Nor farther urge your fway;
Prefs not for what I must deny,

For fear I should obey.

Could all your arts fuccessful prove,

Would you a maid undo,

Whofe greatest failing is her love,
And that her love of you?

Say, would you use that very pow'r

You from her fondness claim,
To ruin, in one fatal hour,
A life of fpotlefs fame?

-Ah! ceafe, my dear, to do an ill,
Becaufe perhaps you may;
But rather try your utmost skill
To fave me, than betray.

Be you yourself my virtue's guard,
Defend, and not purfue;
Since 'tis a task for me too hard,
To fight with love and you.

SONG 107.

Written by Mr. GARRICK. IF truth can fix thy wav'ring heart, Let Damon urge his claim; He feels the paffion void of art,

The pure, the conftant flame.

Tho' fighing fwains their torments tell,

Their fenfual love contemn;
They only prize the beauteous fhell,
But flight the inward gem.

Poffeffion cures the wounded heart,
Deftroys the tranfient fire;
But when the mind receives the dart,
Enjoyment whets defire.

By age your beauty will decay,

Your mind improves with years ; As when the bloffoms fade away,

The rip'ning fruit appears.

May Heav'n and Sylvia grant my fuit, And bless each future hour; That Damon, who can tafte the fruit, May gather ev'ry flow'r.

SONG 108.

Sung in the Mafque of Alfred. YE warblers, while Strephon I mourn, To chear me your harmony bring; Unless, fince my shepherd is gone,

You ceafe, like poor Phillis, to fing; Each flower declines it's fweet head,

Nor odours around me will throw, While ev'ry foft lamb on the mead Seems kindly to pity my woe. Each rural amufement I try,

In vain, to reftore my past eafe;
What charm'd when my Strephon was by,
Has now loft the power to please.
Ye feafons that brighten the grove,

Not long for your abfence we mourn;
But Strephon neglects me and love,
He roves, and will never return.

As gay as the Spring is my dear,

And fweet as all flowers combin'd; His fmiles, like the Summer, can chear; Ah! why then, like Winter, unkind !

Unkind is he not, I can prove,

But tender to others can be ; To Celia and Chloe makes love, And only is cruel to me.

SONG 109.

ON TOBACCO.

TOBACCO's but an Indian weed,
Grows green at morn, cut down at ere
It fhews our decay, we are but clay.
Think on this when you smoke tobacco.
The pipe that is fo lily white,
Wherein fo many take delight,
Is broke with a touch; man's life is fuch
Think on this when you fmoke tobacco.

The pipe that is fo foul within,
Shews how man's foul is ftain'd with fin;
It does require to be purg'd with fire.
Think on this when you take tobacco.
The afhes that are left behind,
Do ferve to put us all in mind,

That into duft return we muft.

Think on this when you smoke tobacco. The smoke that does fo high afcend, Shews that man's life must have an end; The vapour's gone, man's life is done. Think on this when you take tobacco.

Let ideots rave, who what they'd have The fex they can't define;

Just as the is, he's form'd to please,

And long be woman mine.

The sparkling eye, the melting figh, When heart and heart conjoin; The blifs of love, all blifs above,

Make charming woman mine.

In pomp and state, fucceed, ye great,

I'll envy nor repine;

If bleft with pow'r, to life's last hour, To keep dear woman mine.

SONG 112.

THE SKY-LARK.

GO, tuneful bird, that glads the fkies,
To Daphne's window speed thy way;
And there on quiv'ring pinions rife,
And there thy vocal art difplay.

And if the deign thy notes to hear,

And if the praife thy matin fong; Tell her the founds that footh her ear, To Damon's native plaints belong. Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd

The bird from Indian groves may thine; But afk the lovely, partial maid,

What are his notes compar'd to thine? Then bid her treat yon witless beau,

And all his flaunting race, with fcorn; And lend an ear to Damon's woe, Who fings her praife, and fings forlorn.

SONG 113. Sung in Artaxerxes.

THE foldier, tir'd of war's alarms,
Fortwears the clang of hoftile arms,
And feorns the fpear and fhield;
But if the brazen trumpet found,
He burns with conqueft to be crown'd,
And dares again the fie.d.

For when sparkling wine went round,
Never faw I falfhood's mafk;
But ftill honeft truth I found,

In the bottom of each flafk!
O the days, &c.

True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay;
Few the locks that now I own,

And the few I have are grey !
Yet, old Jerome, thou may'ft boast,
While thy fpirits do not tire,
Still, beneath thy age's froft,
Glows a fpark of youthful fire.
O the days, &c.

SONG 115.

Written by the Duke of BucKINGHAMI
GRAVE fops my envy now beget,
Who did my pity move;

They, by the right of wanting wit,
Are free from cares of love.

Turks honour fools; because they are
By that defect fecure
From flavery and toils of war,

Which all the reft endure.

So I, who fuffer cold neglect

And wounds from Celia's eyes, Begin extremely to refpect

These fools that feem fo wife.

'Tis true, they fondly fet their hearts
On things of no delight;
To pafs all day for men of parts,
They pafs alone the night.

But Celia never breaks their reft;
Such fervants fhe difdains:
And fo the fops are dully bleft,
While I endure her chains.

Sung in the Duenna.

The days when I was young!

When I laugh'd in fortune's fpight, Talk'd of love the whole day long,

And with nectar crown'd the night. Then it was, old father care,

Little reck'd I of thy frown;
Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.
O the days, &c.

Truth, they fay, lies in a well,
Why, I vow, I ne'er could fee;

Let the water-drinkers tell,
There it always lay for me:

SONG 116.

THE FEMALE DUELLIST.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

SINCE all fo nicely take offence,
And pinking is the fashion,
I foon fhall find a good pretence
For being in a paffion.

If any on my drefs or air,

To jeft dare take occafion; By female honour I declare,

I'll have an explanation. If you're too free, or full of play, By Jove, my lads, I'il cure ye i And if too cold you turn away,

You'll rouze a very fury.

A law is ev'ry thing 1 fay,

No fwain fhall call me cruel; Whoe'er my will fhall difobey. Gives fignal for a duel.