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,
The feftal dance young fhepherds lead,
Or fing their love-tun'd lay.
Till May in morning-robe draws nigh,
And claims a virgin queen;
The nymphs and fwains exulting cry,
Here's Kate of Aberdeen.

SONG 163.

Sung at FREE-MASONS HALL.
ASSIST me, ye fair tuneful nine,
Euphrofyne grant me thy aid;
Whilft the honours I fing of the trine,
Prefide o'er my numbers, blythe maid.
Ceafe clamour and faction, oh cease!

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;
No cowan, no cowan our fecrets can steal,
No babler our myft'ries betray.

Here wisdom her ftandard difplays;

Here nobly the sciences fhine;
Here the temple's vaft column we raise,
And finish a work that's divine.
Illum'd from the Eaft with pure light,

Here the arts do their bleffings beftow,

And all perfect, all perfect unfold to the fight,
What none but a mafon can know.

If on earth any praise can be found,
Any virtue unnam'd in my fong,

Any grace in the univerfe round,
May these to a mason belong :

May each brother his paffions fubdue,
Practife charity, concord, and love,

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 flies abroad for food,
Returns impatient through the sky
To nurfe her callow brood:
The tender mother knows no joy,
But bodes a thoufand harms,

And fickens for her darling boy,

When abfent from her arms.

Such fondness with impatience join'd
My faithful bofom fires,

Now forc'd to leave the fair behind,
The queen of my defires:
The pow'rs of verfe too languid prove,
All fimilies are vajn

To fhew how ardently I love,

Or to relieve my pain.

The faint with fervent zeal infpir'd,
For heaven and joy divine;
The faint is not with rapture fir'd,
More pure more warm than mine:
I take what liberty I dare,
"Twere impious to fay more;
Convey my longings to the fair,
The goddess I adore.

BRIGHT Cynthia's pow'r, divinely great,
What heart is not obeying?

A thoufand Cupids on her wait,
And in her eyes are playing.

She feems the queen of love to reign;
For the alone difpenfes

Such fweets as beft can entertain
The guft of all the fenfes.

Her face a charming profpect brings;
Her breath gives balmy bliffes;
I hear an angel when the fings,

And taste of heav'n in kifles.
Four fenfes thus fhe feafts with joy,

From nature's richest treasure: Let me the other fenfe employ, And I fhall die with pleasure.

SONG 166.

AMORET.

SWEET Phillis, well met,
The fun is juft fet,

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,
Entreaties are vain,

Perfuade me to go you ne'er fhall;
Night draws on apace,

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
Their leaves kindly join,

To fhelter love's vot'ries from harm.
PHYLLIS.

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
My Amoret fill

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,
His grief fome pity, others blame;

The fatal caufe all kindly teek:
He mingled his concern with theirs,
He gave them back their friendly tears;
He figh'd, but could not ípeak.
Clorinda came, among the reft;
And the, too, kind concern expreft,
And alk'd the reafon of his woe:
She afk'd; but with an air and mien,
As made it eafily foreseen,

She fear'd too much to know.

The shepherd rais'd his mournful head;
And will you pardon me, he faid,
While I the truth reveal;
Which nothing from my breast should tear,
Which never should offend your car,
But that you bid me tell?

'Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain, Since you appear'd upon the plain;

You are the caufe of all my care:
Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart;
Ten thousand torments vex my heart;
I love, and I despair.

Too much, Alexis, I have heard,
'Tis what I thought, 'tis what I fear'd;
And yet I pardon you, the cry'd:
But you fhall promife, ne'er again

To breathe your vows, or fpeak your pain.
He bow'd, obey'd, and dy'd.

SONG 170.

ANACREONTI C.

AS wanton Cupid faw, one day,
A linnet warbling on a spray,
He long'd to make the bird his prey.
See here the ftring that ties my bow;
Says he, I warrant that will do
For fuch an artless bird as you.

Then round the flutterer's neck he caft
The filken cord, and ty'd it fast:
I've got you fafe (he cries) at last.

In vain with out-ftretch'd wings and beak
He tries the urchin's ftring to break;
No more allow'd his flight to take.
No more he rifes from the ground,
But hops and hovers round and round,
Within his fetters, narrow bound.
So Cupid, with ensnaring arts,
Lets fly abroad his poifon'd darts,
And feizes wretched lovers hearts:
Torments them with his wanton play,
Makes them his tyrant pow'r obey,
Yet feems to rule with gentle fway:
But foon miftaken mortals find
How faft a filken cord can bind;
The lover, not the boy, is blind.

And once their sweet lips if you heartily (mack,
They'll never once after deny.
Encourag'd by this, I determin'd to prefs

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,
In lovers fhews prudence and skill;

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,
I'm fash'd wi' their corning,

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;
But quick as an arrow,

Hafte hence to thy marrow,
Who's living in languor till that happy day,
When through the wood, laddie, we'll dance,
fing and play.

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,
And take my word for it, I won't.

Too clofe! I reply'd, Can a lover too close
Approach the dear charmer he loves?

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,
Confider your manhood's at stake;
Each beauty defpifes a queftion like this,
'Tis yours not to afk but to take?

A lover with boldness the fair fhould attack; 'Tis conduct in them to be fhy;

Meanwhile, within her beauteous breast,
Two diff'rent paffions Arove;
When av rice ended the conteft,
And triumph'd over love.

Poor little, pretty, flutt'ring thing,
Thy pains the fex display!
Who, only to repair a ring,

Could take thy life away.

Drive av'rice from your breafts, ye fair,
Monster of fou left mien;

Ye would not let it harbour there,
Could but it's form be seen.

It made a virgin put on guile,
Truth's image break her word;
A Lucia's face forbear to fmile,
A Venus kill her bird.

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
The man you've loft fo long?
Will love on all your pulfes beat,
And tremble on your tongue?
Will you in ev'ry look declare

Your heart is ftill the fame;
And heal each idly anxious care
Our fears in absence frame?
Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene
When shortly we shall meet,
And try what yet remains between
Of loit'ring time to cheat.

But if the dream that foothes my mind
Shall falfe and groundless prove;
If I am doom'd at length to find
You have forgot to love;

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.
YES, I'm in love, I feel it now,
And Celia has undone me;

And yet, I'll fwear, I can't tell how
The pleafing plague ftole on me.
'Tis not her face that love creates,
For there no graces revel;

'Tis not her shape, for there the fates
Have rather been uncivil.

'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,
'Twas both, perhaps, or neither;
In fhort, 'twas that provoking charm
Of Celia all together.

SONG 176.

THE TON.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

TOO long the rhimefters of the age,
Thofe fcribbling fons of ftrife,
Have dar'd a crow-quill war to wage
With dames of higher life,
I am the fex's championess,
And now ftand forth alone,
Prepar'd to rescue and redress
The ladies of the Ton.

Ye fair who taste and fashion love,
I fummon to my song,
To all the world I'll plainly prove,

We never can do wrong.
Tho' trifling duties we neglect,
To modifh life unknown,
'Tis fenfe and reafon ftill direct
The ladies of the Ton.

If glad we feek the midnight hour,
Which others fnore away,
'Tis but to reconfider more

The labours of the day.
If all the night we pafs at whift,
'Tis for reflection done,
In hopes our mem'ries to affift,
And fit us for the Ton.

If, dreading pointed ridicule,

To hufbands we feem loth,
And with our lovers play the fool,
'Tis tenderness for both,

For kind to thefe the world derides,
And harsh to those they moan,
So pure compaffion only guides
The ladies of the Ton.

FREE from noife, free from ftrife,
In a sweet country life,

I could wish for to pafs all my days;

Where innocence reigns,
Flocks cover the plains,

And birds fweetly echo their lays.

How contented they live,
What joys they receive,

Tho' nothing but ground for their floor;
Juft before the sweet cot,
So delightful the spot,

Where jeffamine grows by the door!

How early they rise,
Tranfported with joys,

So contented their days pafs along!
And if justly combin'd,
With a true heart and mind,
To a wife whom all virtues belong.

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.
At fun going down,

Their work being done,

They're the happiest people on earth;
By the oak on the green
Each couple is seen,

With innocent paftime and mirth.
When harvest is done,

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;
Nor meanly pretend any more to admire

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
For a compliment paid to my eyes?

If a flame all difhoneft be vilely profeft,
Thro' tenderness must I incline,
And feek to indulge the repofe of a breaft

That would plant endless tortures in mine!
No, Belmour-a paffion I can't but defpife
Shall never find way to my ears;
Nor the man meet a glance of regard from
thefe eyes,

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?
Or atone with a paltry address to my face,
For the injury done to my mind?

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,