HOW little do the landsmen know

Of what we failors feel,

When waves do mount, and winds do blow!

But we have hearts of feel:

No danger can affright us,

No enemy fhall flout;

We'll make the monfieurs right us,

So tofs the cann about.

Stick clofe to orders, meffmates,
We'll plunder, burn, and fink;
Then France have at your first-rates,
For Britons never shrink:
We'll rummage all we fancy,

We'll bring them in by scores;
And Moll, and Kate, and Nancy,
Shall roll in louis-d'ors.

While here at Deal we're lying,

With our noble commodore,
We'll spend our wages freely, boys,
And then to fea for more:
In peace we'll drink and fing, boys,
In war we'll never fly;

Here's a health to George our king, boys,
And the royal family.

Yet now I think on't, let it lies
To find it were in vain;
For thou'ft a thief in ev'ry eye
Wou'd steal it back again.

Why fhould two hearts in one breaft lie,
And yet not lodge together?
Oh, love! where is thy fympathy,
If thus our breafts thou fever?

But love is fuch a mystery,

I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm beft refolv'd, I then am in moft doubt.

Then farewel care, and farewel woe,
I will no longer pine

For I'll believe I have her heart,
As much as he has mine.

SONG 120.

THE WAY TO KEEP HIM.

YE fair, poffefs'd of ev'ry charm
To captivate the will;
Whofe fmiles can rage itfelf difarm,
Whose frowns at once can kill:
Say, will you deign the verse to hear,
Where flatt'ry bears no part;

An honeft verfe, that flows fincere
And candid from the heart?

Great is your pow'r; but, greater yet,
Mankind it might engage,

If, as ye all can make a net,

Ye all could make a cage:
Each nymph a thousand hearts may take,
For who's to beauty blind;

But to what end a prifoner make,
Unless we've ftrength to bind

Attend the counfel often told,

(Too often told in vain)

Learn that beft art, the art to hold,
And lock the lover's chain.
Gamesters to little purpofe win,
Who lofe again as faft;
Though beauty may the charm begin,
'Tis fweetnefs makes it laft.

SONG 121.

WHAT means that tender figh, my dear?

Why filent drops that chrystal tear?
What jealous fears difturb thy breaft,
Where love and peace delight to reft;
What tho' thy Jockey has been seen
With Molly Sporting on the green;
"Twas but an artful trick to prove
The matchlefs force of Jenny's love.
'Tis true a nofegay I had dreft
To grace the witty Daphne's breast;
But 'twas at her defire, to try
If Damon caft a jealous eye.

Thefe flow'rs will fade by morning dawn,
Neglected, fcatter'd o'er the lawn;
But in thy fragrant bofom lies
A fweet perfume that never dies.

SONG 123.
Sung in the Funeral.

LET not love on me bestow

Soft diftrefs and tender woe;

I know none but fubftantial bliffes,.
Eager glances, folid kiffes;
I know not what the lovers feign,
Of finer pleasure mix'd with pain;
Then pr'ythee give me, gentle boy,
None of thy grief, but all thy joy.

SONG 124.

THE topfails fhiver in the wind,

The hip the cafts to fea;

But yet, my foul, my heart, my mind,
Are, Mary, moor'd with thee:
For tho' thy failor's bound afar,
Still love fhall be his leading ftar.

Should landmen flatter when we're fail'd,
O! doubt their artful tales;
No gallant failor ever fail'd,

If love breath'd conftant gales:
Thou art the compafs of my foul,
Which teers my heart from pole to pole.

Sirens in ev'ry port we meet,

More fell than rocks and waves; But fuch as grace the British fleet, Are lovers, and not faves:

No foes our courage shall fubdue,
Altho' we've left our hearts with you.

These are our cares; but if you're kind,
We'll fcorn the dashing main,
The rocks, the billows, and the wind,
The pow'r of France and Spain:
Now England's glory refts with you,
Our fails are full-fweet girls, adieu!

SONG 125.

Sung in the Man of Mode.

AS Amoret and Phillis fat

One ev'ning on the plain,
And faw the charming Strephon wait
To tell the nymph his pain;
The threat'ning danger to remove,
He whisper'd in her ear,

Ah! Phillis, if you would not love
The fhepherd, do not hear.
None ever had fo ftrange an arta
His paffion to convey

Into a lift'ning virgin's heart,
And steal her foul away:
Fly, fly, betimes, for fear you give
Occafion for your fate.

In vain, faid the, in vain I ftrive,
Alas! 'tis now too late.

SONG 126.

Written by Mr. BOOTH.

CAN, then, a look create a thought
Which time can ne'er remove?
Yes, foolish heart, again thou'rt caught,
Again thou bleed'ft for love.

She fees the conqueft of her eyes,

Nor heals the wound she gave;
She fmiles, whene'er his blushes rife,
And, fighing, uns her flave.

Then, fwain, be bold, and ftill adore her,
Still her flying charms purfue;/
Love and int'reft both implore her,
Pleading night and day for you!

SONG 127.

Sung in Orpheus and Eurydice. WHEN Orpheus went down to the regions below,

Which men are forbidden to fee,

He tun'd up his lyre, as old hiftories fhew,
To fet his Eurydice free.

All hell ftood amaz'd, that a perfon fo wife
Should fo rafhly endanger his life,
And venture fo far-but how vaft their furprize!
When they heard that he came for his wife.
To find out a punishment due to the fault,
Old Piuto long puzzled his brain;
Buthell had not torments fufficient, he thought,
So he gave him his wife back again.

But pity fucceding foon vanquish'd his heart,
And pleas'd with his playing fo well,
He took her again, in reward for his art :
Such power had mufic in hell.

SONG 128.

WHY fhould we of humble ftatė, Vainly blame the pow'rs above;

Or accufe the will of fate,

Which allows us all to love? Love (impartial, gentle boy) Deals his gifts as free as air; Love is all the fhepherd's joy, Love is all the damfel's care. Hope, that charmer of the foul, Hope in love fhould ever live; Could our years for ever roll,

Love would bleffings ever give: Youth, alas! too fwiftly flies, Nor can Cupid bid him stay ; Beauty like a fhadow dies,

Love has wings and will away.

SONG 129.

Sung in the Masque of Alfred.
IF thofe who live in thepherd's bow'r,
Prefs not the gay and ftately bed;

The new-mown hay and breathing flow'r
A fofter couch beneath them spread.
If those who fit at fhepherd's board,
Soothe not their tafte with wanton art;
They take what nature's gifts afford,

And take it with a chearful heart.

If thofe who drain the fhepherd's bowl,

No high and sparkling wine can boaft; With wholefome cups they chear the foul, And crown them with the village toaft. If those who join in thepherd's sport, Dancing on the daify'd ground, Have not the splendour of a court, Yet love adorns the merry round,

O'er mountains and vallies they skim it away
Now Reynard's almoft out of fight;
But fooner than lofe him, they'd spend the
whole day

In hunting for that's their delight.
By eager purfuing they'll have him at laft:
He's fo tir'd, poor rogue, down he lies;
Now starts up afresh-young Snap has him fast:
He trembles, kicks, ftruggles, and dies.

SONG 131.

Written by the Earl of CHESTERFIELD,
MISTAKEN fair, lay Sherlock by
His doctrine is deceiving;

For whilft he teaches us to die,
He cheats us of our living.

To die's a leffon we fhall know

Too foon, without a master ;
Then let us only ftudy, now,

How we may live the fafter.
To live's to love; to blefs, be bleft
With mutual inclination;
Share, then, my ardour in your breast,
And kindly meet my paffion.

But if thus blefs'd I may not live,
And pity you deny ;

To me, at leaft, your Sherlock give,
'Tis I must learn to die.

In the Nightingale" 1738.

SONG 132.

BELIEVE my fighs, my tears, my deara
Believe the heart you've won ;
Believe my vows to you fincere,
Or, Peggy, I'm undone :
You fay I'm fickle, apt to change
At every face that's new ;
Of all the girls I ever faw,

I ne'er lov'd one like you.
My heart was once a flake of ice,
Till thaw'd by your bright eyes;
Then warm'd and kindled in a trice
A flame that never dies:

Then take and try me, and you'll find
A heart that's kind and true;

Of all the girls I ever faw,

I ne'er lov'd one like you.

SONG 133.

WHAT ftill does dear Lucy's difdain
Occafion this feftering smart?

Cannot time give relief to your pain,
And heal the flight wound in your heart?

The arrows of Cupid, I know,

At first are all pointed with fteel:
But how frail is the ftrength of his bow
How fleeting the pangs which we feel!

His wings they are fhatter'd by time,
His quiver is foil'd in the duft;

Such, fuch is life's flowery prime,

And beauty's most infolent truft. Taste the joys a new passion can give,

With the nymph that's complying and kind; Or learning more fa ely to live,

Be bleft, and give love to the wind.

SONG 134.

Written by Mr. CONGREVE. PIOUS Selinda goes to pray'rs, If I but afk the favour: And yet the tender fool's in tears,

When the believes I'll leave her.

Wou'd I were free from this reftraint, Or elfe had hopes to win her; Wou'd the could make of me a faint, Or I of her a finner.

SONG 135.

A BACCHANALIAN SONG.

WE'LL drink, and we'll never have done, boys,

Put the glafs then around with the fun, boys;
Let Apollo's example invite us,

For he's drunk ev'ry night,
That makes him fo bright,
That he's able next morning to light us.
Drinking's a Christian diverfion,
Unknown to the Turk and the Perfian;
Let Mahometan fools
Live by heathenish rules,

And dream o'er their tea-pots and coffee;
While the brave Britons fing,
And drink health to the king,
And a fig for their fultan and fophy.

SONG 136.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

MORE bright the fun began to dawn,
The merry birds to fing,.
And flow'rets dappled o'er the lawn,
In all the pride of spring;
When for a wreath young Damon stray'd,
And fmiling to me brought it;
Take this, he cry'd, my dearest maid;
And who, aye who'd have thought it!

I blush'd the present to receive,

And thank'd him o'er and o'er ; When foft he figh'd, Bright fair, forgive, I must have fomething more: One kind fweet kifs will pay me beft, So earnestly he fought it,

I let him take it, I proteft,

And who, aye who'd have thought it!

A fwain that woo'd with fo much art,
No nymph could long disdain;
A fecret flame foon touch'd my heart,
And flush'd thro' ev'ry vein:

'Twas love infpir'd the pleasing change, From his my bofom caught it; 'Twas frange indeed, 'twas paffing ftrangez

And who, aye who'd have thought it!

Hark! Hymen calls, the fhepherd cry'd a
Let us, my dear comply;

We inftant went, with love our guide,
And bound the nuptial tie:
And ever fince that happy day,

As mutual warmth has taught it,
We fondly kifs, and fport and play,
And who, aye who'd have thought it!

SONG 137.

A HUNTING SONG.

O'ER the lawns, up the hills, as with ardour we bound,

Led on by the loud-founding horn; Kind breezes ftill greet us, with chearfulness crown'd,

And joyful we meet the sweet morn. Rofy health blooms about us with natural grace, Whilft echo, re-echo'd, enlivens the chace.

Should all thegay larks, as they foar to the sky, Their notes in a concert unite;

The mufic of hounds, when fet off in full cry, Would give a more tuneful delight.

Rofy health, &c.

And made believe my heart was cold; What cou'd a virgin do?

The artless mind is foon imprefs'd

With thoughts before unknown; When Cupid wounds the female breast, He's fure to keep his throne. In vain our fortitude we try,

When love's refolv'd to fue; Tis hard thro' pity to comply: What can a virgin do?

SONG 140.

Sung in the Chaplet.

VAIN is ev'ry fond endeavour
To refift the tender dart ;

For examples move us never,

We muft feel, to know the fmart, When the shepherd fwears he's dying,

And our beauties fets to view;

Vanity, her aid supplying,

Bids us think 'tis all our due,
Bids us think, &c.

Softer than the vernal breezes

Is the mild, deceitful ftrain;
Frowning truth our fex difpleases;
Flatt'ry never fues in vain :
But, too foon, the happy lover

Does our tend'reft hopes deceive: Man was form'd to be a rover, Foolish woman to believe, Foolish woman, &c.

New beauties may my eyes employ,

But you engage my heart. So restless exiles, doom'd to roam, Meet pity ev'ry where;

Yet languish for their native home, Tho' death attends them there.

SONG 143.

SINCE Emma caught my roving eye, Since Emma fix'd my wav'ring heart, I long to fmile, I fcorn to figh,

But nature wriumphs over art.
If fuch the hapless moments prove,
Ah! who would give his heart to love?
If frowns and fighs, and cold difdain,
Be meet return for love like mine;
If cruel Emma fcoffs my pain,

And archly wonders why I pine:
If fuch, &c.

But fhould the lovely girl relent;

Oh!-when I wish, and figh, and vow, Should the with blushes fmile confent,

And heart for heart, well pleas'd, beftow; Should fuch the blissful moments prove, Who would not give his heart to love?

SONG 144.

Sung in Comus.

THE wanton god, who pierces hearts,
Dips in gall his pointed darts;
But the nymph difdains to pine,
Who bathes the wound with rofy wine.
Farewel lovers when they're cloy'd;
If I'm fcorn'd because enjoy'd,
Sure the fqueamish fops are free
To rid me of dull company.

They have charms, whilft mine can pleafe;

I love them much, but more my cafe:

No jealous fears my love moleft,
Nor faithlefs vows fhall break my reft.

Why fhould they e'er give me pain,
Who to give me joy disdain?
All I hope of mortal man

Is to love me while he can.

SONG 145.

A Dawn of hope my foul revives,
And banishes defpair;
If ye my dearest Damon lives,

Make him, ye gods, your care. Difpel thefe gloomy fhades of night, My tender grief remove;

Oh! fend fome chearing ray of light And guide me to my love.

Thus, in the fecret, fiien lly fhade,
The penfive Celia mourn`d,

While courtly echo lent her aid,
And figh for figh return'd.