Friend of thine, the shepherd plays

Blithfome near the yellow broom, While his flock, that careless strays, Seeks the wild-thyme's fweet perfume. May, with thee I mean to rove

O'er thefe lawns and vallies fair, Tune my gentle lyre to love,

Cherith hope, and foften care. Round me fhall the village fwains,

Shall the rofy nymphs appear; While I fing, in rural ftrains,

May, to fhepherds ever dear.

I had never fkill to raise

Pæans from the vocal ftrings, To the godlike hero's praise,

To the pageant pomp of kings. Stranger to the hoftile plains,

Where the brazen trumpets found; Life's red ftream the verdure ftains,

Heaps promifcuous prefs the ground:

Where the murd'rous cannon's breath

Fate denounces from afar, And the loud report of death

Stuns the cruel ear of war.

Stranger to the park and play,
Birth-night balls, and courtly trains;
Thee I woo, my gentle May,

Tune for thee my native trains.
Blooming groves, and wand'ring rills,

Sooth thy vacant poet's dreams, Vocal woods, and wilds, and h.lis, All her unexalted themes.

'TIS not my Patty's sparkling eyes, Her air, her ealy grace,

Her thrilling accents, that I prize,
Or yet her blooming tace.

Such charms as thefe in others fhine,
Whofe beauty's all they boast;
But when that beauty does decline,
Their greatest power is loft.

But lovely Patty's wit refin'd,
Her fenfe, good-nature, ease,
Divine perfections of the mind,
And firm defire to please:

Tis thefe that raife the maiden's fame,
That prompt defire and love,

And kindle in my breaft a flame
That time can ne'er remove.

BY moffy brook and flow'ry plain,
I fondly feek my fhepherd fwain;
Tell me, fweet maidens, have
ye feen
The gentle Damon on the green:
Avoid the danger while you may,
He'll steal your tender hearts away.
Perfuafion fmiles whene'er he speaks,
And rofy dimples deck his cheeks,

Blooming as health, as Hebe fair,
The graces twine his auburn hair;'
Loves in his funny eye-beams play,
That stole my tender heart away.

Sweet wreaths of flow'rs he wove for me,
Last night, beneath the hawthorn-tree;
Bewitching are his tales of love,
Propitious may they ever prove:
For Damon, gentle, kind, and gay,
Has ftole my tender heart away.

SONG 184.

Sung in the Beggar's Opera. HOW happy fhould I be with either, Were t'other dear charmer away; But while you thus teize me together, To neither a word will I fay: But tol de rol, &c.

A free intercoufe with our principal ports,
For trade must be certainly better;
When traffic's extended, and goods eafy vended,
In confequence things will be cheaper:
Our commerce must thrive, and the arts will
revive,

Which are now in a fad fituation;

If we follow this notion, from ocean to ocean,
To have a compleat navigation.

To the land what advantages foon must proceed,
When once we have open'd our fluices?
Our cattle, and even the land where they feed,
Will be turn'd into far better uses:
'Tis this will enable our merchants abroad
To vie with each neighbouring nation;
Who now, as they tell us, in fact underfell us,
For want of this free navigation.

'Tis this makes our ifle, in the eyes of the world, A bulwark of terror and wonder;

What ftate, when our shipping their fails have unfurl'd,

But what is oblig'd to knock under! In war or in peace, all commerce would ceafe, Was it not for a free navigation;

'Tis of riches the fource, when fuch plans we enforce,

And of freedom our dear prefervation.

In Lancashire view what a laudable plan,
And brought into fine execution

By Bridgewater's duke; let us copy the man,
And ftand to a good refolution:

If the waters of Trent with the Mersey have vent,

What mortal can have an objection!

So they do not proceed, to cut into the Tweed, With the Scots to have greater connection!

SONG 186.

THE ERIAL EMBASSY.

YE winged tenants of the wood,
Ye warbling choir arife!

And seek the bower of my fair,
Ere fleep forfake her eyes.

Go, fweetly mourning Philomel,
Whole forrows never reft;
Awake yon fhameless, drowfy lark,

And force him from his neft.
Thou, my foft linnet, add thy note;
And thou, melodious thrush;
And thou, fweet goldfinch, hafte ! for fee
The morn begins to blush.
Together wing your airy way

To yonder woodbine fhade,
There foftly fwell your gentle ftrains,
And wake the lovely maid,
Through all the fragrant fpicy grove,
Fond labour of her fwain,
Let echo waft your vary'd notes,
And call her to the plain.

So fhall each neft within my meads
Be fafe from youthful theft;
Nor fhall your young, by cruel fnares,
Of parents be bereft.

No miffive tube fhall here be feen,
My tender birds to flay:
Then hafte, O hafte, ye tuneful tribe,
And call my love away.

And, within the glade obfcure,
Let me all her charms approve.
Gentle zephyrs, breathe ye foft,
Careful fan her lovely form,
And around her playing, oft
Teach her dreams my inward ftorm.
O with what composure there,

If to man fuch blifs was giv'n,
I'd replace her flowing hair,

Steal a kifs, and taste of heav'n!

Waft me, happy fpirits! waft me,
Far from fcenes of deep despair,
To your lovely, charming Daphne,
Thro' the fleeting, liquid air.
Like yon pretty, tender dove,
To it's faithful partner true,
I wou'd live the life of love-
O the gently wakes. Adieu.

SONG 188.

Written by Mr. SHENSTONE.

I Told my nymph, I told her true,

My fields were fmall, my flocks were few;
While faultering accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove fincere.

Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant fheep that left my fold:
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then fincere?

How, chang'd by fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I lov'd became unkind :
She heard, and shed a gen'rous tear;
And is not Flavia then fincere?

How, if the deign'd my love to blefs,
My Flavia muft not hope for dress:
This too fhe heard, and fmil'd to hear;
And Flavia fure must be fincere.

Go fhear your flocks, ye jovial fwains,
Go reap the plenty of your plains;
Defpoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love fincere.

SONG 189.

RALPH OF THE MILL; A PASTORAL BALLAD.

Written by Mr. HAWKINS.

AS Hebe was tending her theep t'other day, Where the warblers whistle and fing,

A rural young (wain came tripping that way,
As brifk and as blithe as a king.

The youth was a ftranger to trouble and care,
Contentment e'er guided his will,
Yet ever regarded the fmiles of the fair,

Though always bred up in a mill.

Love ftole in his breaft at the fight of the maid, For he could not her charms but adore; "And if thou art cruel, dear Hebe," he faid, 66 I furely fall love you the more."

Such tenderness melted her into furprize,
(For Hebe was never unkind)
And all of a fudden love glow'd in her eyes,
Which spoke the dictates of her mind.

They fat themselves down at the foot of a hill,
And chatted together fo free,

Till Ralph, the young (wain, made figns to the mill,

Whilst clasping the nymph on his knee; And thus, in a tranfport, the miller reply'd, "Thy charms, dearest girl, are divine!" Then prefs'd her fweet lips, and with rapture he cry'd,

"O Hebe! confent to be mine."

She liften'd attentive to all his request,
And freely comply'd to his will;
And now, to her folace, she's marry'd, and bleft
With honeft young Ralph of the mill.
Peace follows their footsteps wherever they go,
In blifs all their hours are spent ;

But, leaders of fashion, I'd have you to know,
Their happiness flows from content."

SONG 190.

THE CHOICE.

A Man that's neither high nor low,
In party nor in ftature ;

No noify rake, nor fickle beau,

That's us'd to cringe and flatter. And let him be no learned fool

That nods o'er musty books;
That eats and drinks, and lives by rule,
And weighs my words and looks.
Let him be eafy, frank, and gay,

Of dancing never tir'd;
Always have fomething fmart to say,
But filent, if requir'd.

SONG 191.

A PASTORAL.

Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. PALEMON, feated by his fav'rite maid, The fylvan scenes with extaly furvey'd; No.hing could make the fond Alexis gay, For Daphne had been abfent half the day; Dar'd by Palemon for a paftoral prize, Reluctant (in his turn) Alexis tries.

PALEMON.

This breeze by the river how charming and foft!

How smooth the grafs carpet! how green! Sweet, fweet fings the lark, as he carrols aloft;

His mufic enlivens the fcene.

A thousand fresh flow'rets unusually gay,
The fields and the forefts adorn;

I pluck'd me fome rofes-the children of May!
And could not find one with a thorn.

THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.

THERE was a lord of worthy fame,
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble train

Of gentry by his fide.

And while he did in chace remain,
To fee both sport and play;
His lady went, as fhe did feign,

Unto the church to pray.

This lord he had a daughter dear,
Whole beauty fhone fo bright,
She was belov'd, both far and near,
Of many a lord and knight.
Fair Isabella was the call'd,

A creature fair was the;
She was her father's only joy,
As you shall after fee;

Therefore her cruel step-mother
Did envy her fo much;
That day by day the fought her life,
Her malice it was fuck.

She bargain'd with the mafter-cook,
To take her life away:

And taking of her daughter's book,
She thus to her did lay:

Go home, sweet daughter, I thee pray,
Go haften prefently;

And teil unto the master-cook
Thefe words that I tell thee.

And bid him drefs to dinner ftraight
That fair and milk-white doc,
That in the park doth fhine fo bright,
There's none fo fair to fhow.

This lady fearing of no harm,
Obey'd her mother's will;
And presently the hafted home,
Her pleasure to fulfil.

She ftraight into the kitchen went,
Her meffage for to teli;

And there the fpy'd the mafter-cook,
Who did with malice fwell.

Now, mafter-cook, it must be fo,

Do that which i thee tell:

You needs muft drefs the milk-white doe
Which you do know full well.

Then ftraight his cruel bloody hands,
He on the lady laid;

Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he faid:

Thou art the doe, that I muft drefs;
See here, behold my knife;
For it is pointed prefently

To rid thee of thy life.

O then, cry'd out the fcullion-boy,
As loud as loud might be:
O fave her life, good mafter-cook,
And make your pyes of me!
For pity's fake do not destroy
My lady with your knife:
You know he is her father's joy;

For Chrift's fake fave her life,
I will not fave her life, he faid,
Nor make my pyes of thee;
Yet if thou doft this deed betray,
Thy butcher I will be.

Now when this lord he did come home
For to fit down and eat;

He called for his daughter dear,
To come and carve his meat.
Now fit you down, his lady faid,
O fit you down to meat:
Into fome nunnery she is gone;
Your daughter dear forget.
Then folemnly he made a vow,

Before the company;

That he would neither eat nor drink,
Until he did her fee.

O then befpake the fcullion-boy,
With a loud voice fo high:
If now you will your daughter fee,
My lord, cut up that pye;
Wherein her flesh is minced fmall,

And parched with the fire;
All caufed by her step-mother,
Who did her death defire.

And curfed be the master-cook,

O curfed may he be!

I proffer'd him my own heart's blood,
From death to fet her free.

Then all in black this lord did mourn;
And for his daughter's fake,
He judg'd her cruel ftep-mother
To be burnt at a stake.

Likewife he judg'd the mafter-cook
In boiling-lead to stand,
And made the fimple fcullion-boy
The heir of all his land.

SONG 193.

THE WESTERN BEAUTY.

LISTEN, Bath, and the voice of an oracle hear,

Nor fancy the poet in jeft:
Alarm'd for all nature, I bid thee beware

Of a fair one that flames in the Weft.

From her cheek, tho' pale fickness has rifl'd the rofe,

And robb'd of it's lightning her eye; Lo, with graces fufficient the virgin ftill glows, A legion of nymphs to fupply.

To recal thofe loft charms to thy fountain she wings,

But forbid her to tafte it, or lave; For, woe to the world fhould't thou grant her thy fprings, /

And health be the fruit of thy wave. Fulfill'd would the prophefy rife (by my foul) By which poor mankind must expire; Which declares that the globe fhall be burn'd like a fcroll,

That an angel fhall fet it on fire.

SONG 194.

THE PANACEA; OR, UNIVERSAL REMEDY.

Written by Mr. EGGLESHAM.

A Doctor behold of moft extenfive credit! Whate'er your diforder no longer pray dread it;

With one fingle drug all complaints I can cure:
Tho' my med'cine is sharp, yet it's virtues are
fure.
La, la, la, la, &c.

The body's grofs humours, and ftomach's vagaries,

I leave to the college, and apothecaries;
My aims are much higher, and leave them be-
hind;

They cure but the body, I body and mind.
La, la, la, la, &c.
This anodyne necklace (a cord to your thinking)
Apply'd to the throat, cures all ills in a twink-
ling;

Whatever their station, it inftantly frees 'em,
Politician, rake, bully, fine lady, or beefom.
La, la, la, la, &c.

ftanding

Will give o'er the thoughts of your free votes commanding;

Only one little dofe will quite fettle his brain, Nor bruifers nor butchers he'll think of again. La, la, la, la, &c.

The feeble, old noble, long fince dead to pleasure,
Who ftill feels an itch for virginity's treafure,
No more difappointment or actions fhall pain,
Nor, poffefs'd of the prize, fhall poffefs it in vain.
La, la, la, la, &c.

No profit I aim at, the good of the nation
Is all my defign in this free publication;
Then hither, who wish or deferve it, repair;
You shall all be fupply'd-I've enough and to
fpare.
La, la, la, la, &c.

WHEN I behold that angel face, I feel love's fiercest fire;

That form, replete with ev'ry grace,

Was made to give defire.

Oft I effay to tell my pain,
As oft I fear her frown;
As fital that, as on the main

Mad tempefts thund'ring down.
Yet could I hope the fweet relief
Of one reviving fmile;
How would it forten all my grief,

And ev'ry pang beguile.

Not yonder fun, that lights the sky,
Is to it's courfe more true
Than to the laws of love am I,
Than I should be to you.

SONG 196.

WHEN Celia dwells on Florio's charms,
Commends his rofy neck and arms,
With gloomy fpleen I fwell;
My pallid cheeks, and filent tears,
Confus'd replies, and anxious fears,

Too plain my anguish tell.

But when o'erpower'd by gen'rous wine,
His odious arms thy waift entwine,
With fhame and rage I burn;