I'll tune my pipe to playful notes, And roufe yon nodding grove, Till new-wak'd birds diftend their throats, And hail the maid I love; At her approach the lark mistakes, And quits the new-drefs'd green: Fond birds! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. Now blithefome o'er the dewy mead, Where elves difportive play, SONG 163. Sung at FREE-MASONS HALL. Fly hence all ye cynical train; Disturb not, difturb not the Lodge's fweet peace, Where filence and fecrefy reign. Religion untainted here dwells, Here the morals of Athens are taught; Great Hiram's tradition here tells How the world out of chaos was brought. With fervency, freedom, and zeal, Our master's commands we obey; Here wisdom her ftandard difplays; Here nobly the sciences fhine; Here the arts do their bleffings beftow, And all perfect, all perfect unfold to the fight, If on earth any praise can be found, Any grace in the univerfe round, May each brother his paffions fubdue, And be hail'd, and be hail'd by the thrice happy few Who prefide in the Grand Lodge above. SONG 164. THE bird that hears her neftling cry, And fickens for her darling boy, When abfent from her arms. Such fondness with impatience join'd Now forc'd to leave the fair behind, To fhew how ardently I love, Or to relieve my pain. The faint with fervent zeal infpir'd, BRIGHT Cynthia's pow'r, divinely great, A thoufand Cupids on her wait, She feems the queen of love to reign; Such fweets as beft can entertain Her face a charming profpect brings; And taste of heav'n in kifles. From nature's richest treasure: Let me the other fenfe employ, And I fhall die with pleasure. SONG 166. AMORET. SWEET Phillis, well met, To yon myrtle grove let's repair; All nature's at reft, And none to moleft; I've fomething to fay to my fair. PHYLLIS. No, no, fubtle fwain, Perfuade me to go you ne'er fhall; I must quit the place, The dew is beginning to fall. AMORET. Believe me, coy maid, By honour I'm sway'd, No fears need your bofor alarm, The oak and the pine To fhelter love's vot'ries from harm. Your arts I defpife, My virtue I prize; Though poor, I am richer than those Who, loft to all shame, Will barter their fame For purchase of gold and fine cloaths. AMORET. You do me much wrong; Such thoughts ne'er belong To the noble and gen'rous breast; I meant but to know If Phyllis would go And let Hymen make Amoret bleft. PHYLLIS. If what you now fay Your heart don't betray, It gives me much pleasure to find Written by Mr. PRIOR. ALEXIS fhunn'd his fellow fwains, Their rural fports and jocund ftrains, (Heaven guard us all from Cupid's bow;} He loft his crook, he left his flocks, And wand'ring through the lonely rocks, He nourish'd endless woe. The nymphs and fhepherds round him came, The fatal caufe all kindly teek: She fear'd too much to know. The shepherd rais'd his mournful head; 'Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain, Since you appear'd upon the plain; You are the caufe of all my care: Too much, Alexis, I have heard, To breathe your vows, or fpeak your pain. SONG 170. ANACREONTI C. AS wanton Cupid faw, one day, Then round the flutterer's neck he caft In vain with out-ftretch'd wings and beak And once their sweet lips if you heartily (mack, The prettiest of nymphs ever known, Till my heart beat with transport, to fuch an excefs, That her bofom grew warm as my own. A manly affurance, where love is fincere, And now when I cry, Shall I kiss you, my dear? Her anfwer's, You may if you will. SONG 172. THROUGH THE WOOD LADDIE, Sung at VAUXHALL. Sandy, why leav'ft thou thy Nelly to mourn, Thy prefence could ease me, When naithing can please me! Now dowie I figh on the banks of the bourn, Or through the wood, laddie, until thou return. Tho' woods now are bonny, and mornings are clear, While lav'rocks are finging, And primrofes fpringing, Yet nane of them pleafes mine eye or mine ear, When through the wood, laudie, ye dinne appear. That I am forfaken fome spare not to tell, Baith ev'ning and morning, Their jeering goes aft to my heart wi' a knell, When through the wood, laddie, I wander myfel. Then ftay, my dear Sandy, no longer away; Hafte hence to thy marrow, WHEN first I faw Chloe I pray'd for a kifs, She frown'd, and cry'd, Pr'ythee, fwain, don't; I always think freedoms so close are amifs, Too clofe! I reply'd, Can a lover too close He can't, ev'ry fhepherd that's happy well knows, And never a damfel difproves. Sly Cupid now whifper'd, Why beg for a kifs, A lover with boldness the fair fhould attack; 'Tis conduct in them to be fhy; Meanwhile, within her beauteous breast, Poor little, pretty, flutt'ring thing, Could take thy life away. Drive av'rice from your breafts, ye fair, Ye would not let it harbour there, It made a virgin put on guile, SONG 174. Written by G. LYTTELTON, Elq. THE heavy hours are almost past That part my love and me, My longing eyes may hope at last Their longing with to fee. But how, my Delia, will you meet Your heart is ftill the fame; But if the dream that foothes my mind All I of Venus ask is this, No more to let us join; But grant me here the flatt'ring bliss, To die and think you mine. SONG 175. Written by Mr. WHITEHEAD. And yet, I'll fwear, I can't tell how 'Tis not her shape, for there the fates 'Tis not her air, for fure in that There's nothing more than common; And all her fenfe is only chat, Like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give th' alarm, SONG 176. THE TON. Sung at VAUXHALL. TOO long the rhimefters of the age, Ye fair who taste and fashion love, We never can do wrong. If glad we feek the midnight hour, The labours of the day. If, dreading pointed ridicule, To hufbands we feem loth, For kind to thefe the world derides, FREE from noife, free from ftrife, I could wish for to pafs all my days; Where innocence reigns, And birds fweetly echo their lays. How contented they live, Tho' nothing but ground for their floor; Where jeffamine grows by the door! How early they rise, So contented their days pafs along! Tho' homely their food, Their appetite's good, Blooming health on their cheeks doth appear ; Neither envy nor pride With them can refide, But happiness shines thro' the year. Their work being done, They're the happiest people on earth; With innocent paftime and mirth. With a formal old fong, The jolly farmer amongst all the reft, He will laugh, drink, and say, This is our holiday, With beef and good ale of the beft. SONG 179. THE LIBERTINE REPULSED. HENCE Belmour, perfidious! this inftant retire, No farther entreaties employ; What bafely you wish to destroy. Say, youth, muft I madly rush on upon fhame, If a traitor but artfully fighs! And eternally part with my honour and fame If a flame all difhoneft be vilely profeft, That would plant endless tortures in mine! That would drench them forever in tears. Can the lover who thinks, này, who wishes me bafe, Expect that I e'er fhould be kind? Hence, Belmour, this inftant, and cease every dream, Which your hope faw fo foolishly born; Nor vainly imagine to gain my esteem, By deferving my hate and my fcorn. SONG 180. ODE TO MAY. Written by Mifs WHATELRY. FAIREST daughter of the year, Ever blooming, lovely May; While the vivid fkies appear, Nature fmiles, and all is gay. Thine the flowery painted mead, Pafture fair, and mountain green; Thine, with infant harveft fpread, Laughing lies the lowland-fcene, |