Her blooming cheeks are dy'à
With colour all their own,
Excelling tar the pride

Of roses newly blown.
Her well-turn'd limbs confefs
The lucky hand of Jove;
Her features all express

The beauteous queen of love:
What flames my nerves invade,
When I behold the breaft
Of that too-charming maid
Rife, fuing to be prest?
Venus round Fanny's waift,

Has her own Cettus bound, Three guardian Cupids grace, And dance the circle round. How happy muft he be

Who fhall her zone unlofe! That blifs to all, but me,

May Heaven and the refufe!

WHEN Chloe we ply,

We fwear we shall die,

Her eyes do our hearts fo enthrall;

But 'tis for her pelf,
And not for herself;

'Tis all artifice, artifice all.

The maidens are coy,
They'll pifh and they'll fie!

And fwear if you're rude, they will call;
But whisper fo low,

You may easily know,

'Tis all artifice, artifice all.

My dear, the wives cry,
If ever you die,

marry again I ne'er fhall;
But in lefs than a year,
Vill make it appear,

all artifice, artifice all

In matters of state,

And party debate,

For church and for justice we bawł; But if you'll atrend,

You'll find in the end,

'Tis all artifice, artifice all.

The non-cons will rant

In their pulpits, and cant, And the honeft conformists will maul In holy disguise

They lift up their eyes;

'Tis all artifice, artifice all.

The lawyers, you know,
To Westminster go,

And plead for their fees in the hall;
For their clients they'll wrangle,
And make fuch a jangle!

'Tis all artifice, artifice all.

The wretch that attends,
And on courtiers depends,
His fortune he'll find to be ímall;
For their actions declare,

Their words are but air;
'Tis all artifice, artifice all.

ONE night when all the village slept,
Myrtilla's fad despair

The wretched shepherd waking kept
To tell the woods his care;

Be gone (faid he) fond thoughts, be gone i
Eyes, give your forrows o'er!

Why fhould you waste your tears for one
Who thinks on you no more?

Yet, oh ye birds, ye flocks, ye powers!
That dwell within this grove!
Can tell how many tender hours

We here have pafs'd in love!
Yon ftars above! my cruel foes!
Can tell how he has fworn,

A thousand times, that like to thofe,
Her flame fhould ever burn!

But fince he's loft-oh! let me have
My wish, and quickly diej

And honefty gives e'en to aukwardness grace:
Beflour'd with his meal does he labour and fing,
And regaling at night is as blest as a king :
After heartily eating, he takes a full fwill
Of liquor home-brew'd, to fuccefs of the mill.

He makes no nice fcruples of toll for his trade,
For that's an excife to his industry paid:
His confcience is free, and his income is clear,
And he values not thofe of ten thousand a year;
He's a freehold fufficient to give him a vote;
At elections he fcorns to accept of a groat;
He hates your proud placemen; and, do what
they will,

They ne'er can feduce the ftaunch man of the mill.

SONG 1254.

DECLARE, my pretty maid,
Muft my fond fuit milcarry?
With you I'll toy, I'll kiss and play;
But hang me if I marry.

Then fpeak your mind at once,

Nor let me longer tarry:
With you I'll toy, I'll kifs and play;
But hang me if I marry.

Tho' charms and wit affail,

The stroke I well can pariy: I love to kifs, to toy and play; But do not chufe to marry.

Young Molly of the dale

Makes a mere flave of Harry; Because, when they had toy'd and kiss'd, The foolish fwain wou'd marry.

Thefe fix'd refolves, my dear,

I to the grave will carry :
With you I'll toy, and kifs, and play;
But hang me if I marry.

SONG 1255.

WHENE'ER I meet my Celia's eyes, Sweet raptures in my bofom rite, My feet forget to move;

work;

And if water is fcanty he takes up his fork,
And over the meadows he fcatters his hay,
Or with the stiff plough turns up furrows of
clay :

His harvest is crown'd with good English glee:
That his country may ever be happy and free:
With his hand and his heart to King George
does he fill.

May all loyal fouls act the man of the mill.

SONG 1253.

SPRING.

Written by SHAKESPEARE. WHEN dazies py'd, and violets blue, And cuckow-buds of yellow hue, And lady's fmocks all filver white, Do paint the meadows with delight;

Soft blufhes o'er her cheeks are (pread:
Sure this is mutual love!

My beating heart is wrapt in blifs,
Whene'er I steal a tender kiss,

Beneath the filent grove:
She strives to frown, and puts me by,
Yet anger dwells not in her eye;

Sure this is mutual love!
And oace, O once, the dearest maid,
As on her lips my head was laid,

Some fecret impulfe drove;
Me, me, her gentle arms careft,
And to her bofom closely preft;
Sure this was mutual love!

And now, transported with her charms,
A foft defire my bofom warms,

Forbidden joys to prove ; Trembling, for fear he should comply, She from my arms prepares to fly, Tho' warm'd with mutual love!

U u

Okay! I cry'd-let Hymen's bands
This moment tie our willing hands,
And all thy fears remove;
A modeft blush confent exprefs'd;
And now we live, fupremely blest,
A life of mutual love!

SONG 1256.

DIOGENES furly and proud,

Who fnarl'd at the Macedon youth, Delighted in wine that was good, Because in good wine there was truth; But growing as poor as a Job, Unable to purchase a flask, He chofe for his manfion a tub,

And liv'd by the scent of the cask,
Heraclitus ne'er would deny

A bumper to cherish his heart;
And when he was maudlin would cry,
Because he had empty'd his quart:
Tho' fome are fo foolish to think,

He wept at men's follies and vice; 'Twas only his cuftom to drink,

Till the liquor flow'd out of his eyes.

Democritus always was glad

To tipple and cherish his foul;
Would laugh like a man that was mad,
When over a good flowing bowl;
As long as his cellar was for'd,

The liquor he'd merrily quaff;
And when he was drunk as a lord,
At them that were fober he'd laugh.

Wife Solon, who carefully gave

Good laws unto Athens of old, And thought the rich Crefus a slave

(Tho' a king) to his coffers of gold; He delighted in plentiful bowls,

But'drinking much talk would decline, Becaufe 'twas the custom of fools,

To prattle much over their wine.

Old Socrates ne'er was content,

Till a bottle had heighten'd his joys, Who in's cups to the oracles went,

Or he ne'er had been counted fo wife: Late hours he most certainly lov'd,

Made wine the delight of his life, Or Xantippe would never have prov'd Such a damnable fcold of a wife.

Grave Seneca, fam'd for his parts,

Who tutor'd the bully of Rome, Grew wife o'er his cups and his quarts, Which he drank like a mifer at home; And, to fhew he lov'd wine that was good, To the laft, (we may truly aver it) He tinctur'd his bath with his blood, So fancy'd he dy'd in his claret.

Pythagoras did filence enjoin

On his pupils who wifdom would feek; Becaufe he tippled good wine

Till himself was unable to fpeak;

And when he was whimfical grown

With fipping his plentiful bowls, By the strength of the juice in his crown, He conceiv'd tranfmigration of fouls. Copernicus too, like the reft,

Believ'd there was wifdom in wine, And thought that a cup of the best Made reafon the brighter to fhine; With wine he replenish'd his veins,

And made his philofophy reel; Then fancy'd the world, like his brains, Turn'd round like a chariot wheel. Ariftotle, that maler of arts,

Had been but a dunce without wine,
And what we afcribe to his parts

Is due to the juice of the vine;
His belly, moft writers agree,
Was as big as a watering-tough ;
He therefore leap'd into the fea,
Because he'd have liquor enough.
When Pyrrho has taken a glass,

He faw that no object appear'd
Exactly the fame as it was

Before he had liquor'd his beard: For things running round in his drink, Which fober he motionleis found, Occafion'd the fceptic to think

There was nothing of truth to be found. Old Plato was reckon'd divine,

He fondly to wifdem was prone; But had it not been for good wine, His merits had never been known. By wine we are generous made,

It furnishes fancy with wings, Without it we ne'er fhould have had Philofophers, poets, or kings.

SONG 1257.

Her eyes fhone fo bright when the rose ev'ry day,

That the fhot the poor cobler quite over the

way.

Derry down, down, &c.

He fung her love-fongs as he fat at his work, But he was as hard as a Jew or a Turk Whenever he fpake fhe would flounce and would fleer,

Which put the poor cobler quite into despair. Derry down, down, &c.

He took up his awl that he had in the world, And to make away with himfelf was refolv'd; He pierc'd thro' his body, instead of the fole, So the cobler he dy'd, and the bell it did toll. Derry down, down, &c,

And now, in good-will, I advife as a friend, All coblers take warning by this cobler's end; Keep your hearts out of love, for we find by what's paft,

That love brings us all to an end at the last. Derry down, down; down, derry down.

SONG 1258.

THE ftone that all things turns at will
To gold, the chymift craves;
But gold, without the chymift's skill,
Turns all men into knaves.
The merchant wou'd the courtier cheat,
When on his goods he lays
Too high a price-but, faith he's bit,
For a courtier never pays.
The lawyer with a face demure,

Hangs him who feals your pelf:
Because the good man can endure
No robber but himself.

Betwixt the quack and highwayman,
What diff'rence can there be?
Tho' this with piftol, that with pen,
Both kill you for a fee.
The husband cheats his loving wife,
And to a mistress goes;
While fhe, at home, to eafe her life,

Caroufes with the beaus.

The tenant doth the fteward nick,
(So low this art we find)
The steward doth his lordship trick,
My lord tricks all mankind.
One fe&t there is, to whofe fair lot,
No cheating arts do fall;

And thofe are parfons call'd, God wot-
And fo I cheat you all.

SONG 1259. DRINK about, my dear friend, For, I pray, to what end Stands ufelefs the full-flowing bowl?

Leave your forrows behind, Give your cares to the wind, And drink to each jolly brave foul. For Alcides the fam'd,

Who monsters all tam'd,

And bound the ftout porter of hell;
Though immortal his line,
Had it not been for wine,
Might, like them he conquer'd, have fell,
Though Achilles the great,
When he fought at such rate,
He flew the great Hector of Troy;
'Twas the grape's potent juice
Made him wonders produce,
And Priam's whole race to destroy.

Neoptolemus, too,

The fame fteps did pursue, And trac'd the fam'd heroes of yore; He'd in drinking relax,

And then Pyrrhus's acts

Were as great as his father's before.

And Ulyffes the fly

Had been drinking (for why) When the Trojan Palladium he stole; For his fubtle thoughts fprung, If e'er Ajax but fung

The charms of a sparkling full bowl.

Since in drinking we find
There's a charm for the mind,
Let Bacchus then join in his train;
Drink, my lads, drink about,
Let us fee the bowl out,
And once more we'll fill it again.

Sung in Perfeus and Andromeda. HOW pleafant a failor's life paffes, Who roams o'er the watery main ! No treasure he ever amaffes,

But chearfully fpends all his gain.
We're ftrangers to party and faction,

To honour and honesty true,
And would not commit a base action,
For power or profit in view.
Then why should we quarrel for riches,
Or any fuch glittering toys?

A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches,
Goes thorough the world, brave boys.
The world is a beautiful garden,

Enrich'd with the bleflings of life. The toiler with plenty rewarding, Which plenty too often breeds ftrife. When terrible tempefts affail us,

And mountainous billows affright,
No grandeur or wealth can avail us,
But fkilful industry steers right.
Then why, &c.

The courtier's more subject to dangers,
Who rules at the helm of the state,
Than we, that to politicks ftrangers,
Efcape the fnares laid for the great.

Then, virtue, to the helm repair,

Thou, innocence, fhalt guide the oar; Now rage ye winds, ftorms rend the air, My barque thus mann'd shall gain the fhore.

SONG 1263.

MY paffion is as mustard strong,
I fit all fober fad,

Drunk as a piper all day long,

Or like a March-hare mad.
Round as a hoop the bumpers flow,
I drink, yet can't forget her :
For tho' as drunk as David's fow,
I love her ftill the better.
Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,

If Molly were but kind,
Cool as cucumber could fee

The rest of womankind.
Like a fuck pig I gaping ftare,

And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake with fighs and care,

Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge I was known,

And foft as filk my skin,
My cheeks as fat as butter grown,
But as a great now thin.
I melancholy as a cat,

Am kept awake to weep;
But fhe, infenfible of that,
Sound as a top can fleep.

Hard is her heart, as flint or ftone,
She laughs to fee me pale ;
And merry as a grig is grown,

And brifk as bottled-ale.

The god of love, at her approach,
Is bufy as a bee;
Hearts found as any bell or roach,

Are fmit, and figh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail

The fine men croud about her; But foon as dead as a door-nail

Shali I be, if without her. Straight as my leg her fhape appears, Oh! were we join'd together, My heart would foon be free from cares, And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien,

No drum was ever tighter; Her glance is as a razor keen,

And not the fan is brighter. As foft as pap her kifïès are,

Methinks I feel them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair,

Her eyes as black as jet.

As fmooth as glafs, as white as curds,
Her pretty hand invites ;
Sharp as a needle are her words,
Her wit like pepper bites.