Tell me truly where he's roving,
That I may no longer forrow;.
If he's weary grown of loving,

Let him tell me fo to-morrow.

Does fome favourite rival hide thee?
Let her be the happy creature;
I'll not plague myself to chide thee,
Nor difpute with her a feature.
But I can no longer tarry,

Nor will kill myself with forrow;
I may lose the time to marry,

If I reach beyond to-morrow.

Think not, thepherd, thus to brave me,
If I'm your's, away no longer;
If you won't, another'll have me,

I may cool, but not grow fonder.
If your lovers, girls, forfake ye,

Whine not in defpair and forrow; Bleft another lad may make ye,

Stay for none beyond to-morrow.

SONG 255.

DEAR Nancy fir'd my artlefs breaft,
I ne'er faw girl fo clever;

I fometimes thought she'd make me bleft,
And fometimes fancy'd never:
Whene'er I told my am'rous tale,

With fighs oft intervening,

Your fuit, fhe'd cry, won't here prevail; I cannot tell your meaning.

The wife remark, A man in love

Looks wond'rous foft and filly:
The truth coy Nancy made me prove,
For, oh her heart was chilly:
To balls and plays the us'd to range,
Her company still feen in;

But ftill 'twas strange, 'twas mighty strange,
She could not tell my meaning.

I love you, Nancy, oft I'd cry,
Without you, can't be easy;
Oh! fhall I live, or fhall I die,
Pray tell me which will pleafe you?
By all means live! the fair replies,
This paffion wants a weaning;
Declare yourself without disguise,
I cannot tell your meaning.

Oh! now, I thought's the lucky time;
Although fo long I've tarry'd,

I hope, I anfwer'd, 'tis no crime,
To fay, I'd fain be marry'd.
She gave her hand, nor feen'd to flight
The love there was no fcreening;
And now we live in fweet delight,
Vers'd in each other's meaning.

SONG 256.

I Met young Damon, t'other day,

And Lear me as he drew,

No fwain, methought, e'er look`d (ʊ gay; Upon my word 'tis true.

With ardent blifs, my lips he pref;
Pray, what could Phillis do?
I frown'd, but faith 1 frown'd in jeft;
Upon my word 'tis true.

The fhepherd figh'd, and talk'd of love; (A theme to me quite new)

Of angels-Heav'n-and pow'rs above;
And vow'd that all was true.
My bofom throbb'd, I knew not why,
As ftill more fond he grew-
I liften'd to his tale with joy;
Upon my word 'tis true.

Let Damon now be bleft, he cry'd,
And fondly to me flew;

His freedom vain I ftrove to chide;
Upon my word 'tis true.
With blushes fpread I look'd confent,
Felt joys but known to few;

For then I found what Damon meant,
And all he faid was true.

SONG 257.

THE ROVER RECLAIMED.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

I Rambled about for a twelvemonth, I vow, In fearch of a damfel for life;

For roving perplex'd me, I could not tell how, So ventur'd at laft on a wife.

The girls of the town, each rake muft well know,

Imbitter the pleasures of life,

For evils on evils will conftantly flow,

And make us all wish for a wife.

A miftrefs, 'tis true, who's youthful and gay,
May fweeten the troubles of life,
And while the is conftant, drive forrow away;
But what is all this to a wife!

In wedlock, alone, true pleafares we find
To gild the rough passage thro' life,
Then chufe out a lafs with a delicate mind,
And make the dear charmer a wife.

And you, O ye fair, be kind to the man
Who offers to blefs you for life;
Be conftant and true, and as fond as you can;
For thefe are the charms of a wife.

Ere the larks early carols falute the new day,
He fprings from his cottage as jocund as May;
He chearfully whistles, regardless of care,
Or fings the last ballad he bought at the fair.
While courtiers are toil'd in the cobwebs of
ftate,

Or bribing elections in hopes to be great,
No fraud or ambition his bofom does fill,
Contented he works, if there's grift for his
mill.

On Sunday, bedeck'd in his homespun array,
At church he's the loudest to chant or to pray;
Then fits to a dinner of plain English food,
Tho' fimple his pudding, his appetite's good;
At night when the priest and excifeman are
gone,

He quaffs at the alehoufe with Roger and John,

Then reels to his pillow, and dreams of no ill.

What monarch fo blefs'd as the man of the mill!

'Tis wine, only wine, that true pleasure beftows;

Our joys it encreases, and lightens our woes;
Remember what topers of old us'd to fing,
The man that is drunk is as great as a king.

If Cupid affaults you, there's law for his tricks;
Anacreon's cafes fee, page twenty-fix:
The precedent's glorious, and juft, by my foul,
Lay hold on and drown the young dog in a
bowl.

What's life but a frolic, a fong, and a laugh? My toast shall be this, whilft I've liquor to quaff;

"May mirth and good fellowship always abound!"

Boys, fill up a bumper, and let it go round.

SONG 261.

THE CHEARFUL SPRING.

SHARP winter melts, and fpreads her wing;
A pleafing change, a fmiling fpring;
The trees their vary'd bloffoms wear,
And op'ning flow'rs perfume the air;
Sweet Philomela tunes her ftrain,
And warbling charms the lift'ning plain.
The fun encreases ev'ry round,
The fnow is vanish'd from the ground,
With fongs the vocal forests ring,
All to adorn the chearful fpring;
The meadows all around are feen
Cover'd o'er with lovely green.

The dusky clouds fo fwiftly fly,
And leave behind the azure fky;
The mountains fmile, the hills are gay,
And vailies boaft the pride of May;
The ftreams that overflow'd their mounds,
Now gently glide within their bounds.

SONG 262.

THE LOVER'S RECANTATION; A CANTATA.
Sung at VAUXHALL.
RECITATIVE.

THE kind appointment Celia made,
And nam'd the myrtle bow'r,
There, fretting, long poor Damon ftay'd
Beyond the promis'd hour;

No longer able to contain

This anxious expectation,

With rage he thought t' allay his pain,
And vented thus his paffion:

AIR.

To all the fex deceitful,
A long and last adieu,
Since women prove ungrateful

As long as men prove true. The pains they give are many,

And, oh! too hard to bear; The joys they give, if any,

Few, fhort, and inficere.

RECITATIVE.

Now Celia, from mama got loose,

Had reach'd the calm retreat; With modet blufh fhe beg'd excufe,

And blam'd her tardy feet; The shepherd from each doubt releas'd,

His joy cou'd not restrain, But as each tender thought increas'd, Thus chang'd his railing ftrain.

AIR.

How engaging, how endearing,

Is a lover's pain and care! And what joy the nymph's appearing, After abfence or despair. Women wife, increase defiring, By contriving kind delays, And, advancing or retiring,

All they mean is-more to pleafe.

SONG 263.

Sung at VAUXHALL.
WHEN Hobbinol entreated Doll,
Within the grove to enter,
She hung her head, and blushing faid,
She was afraid to venture.

For there poor Nan put faith in man,
And forely does repent her,
Which makes me fear no good is near,

And therefore will not venture.

Flis fond request he eager preft,

And fwore no harm he meant her;
By honour fway'd, be not difmay'd,
But kindly with me venture.
On wedlock bent was all he meant,
Would that, he faid, content her;
To prove me true yon fteeple view,

Say, will my Dolly venture?

Doubt ftill poffeft the damfel's breaft,

Till virtue counfel lent her. Hafte, hafte, he cry'd, be made a bride,

And after you may venture.

Doll gave confent, to church they went,
A wife back Hymen fent her,
No more a maid, fhe's not afraid
With him alone to venture.

SONG 264.

A PRISON SONG.

WELCOME, welcome, brother debtor,
To this poor, but merry place;
Where no bailiff, dun, nor fetter,
Dares to fhew his frightful face:
But, kind Sir, as you're a ftranger,
Down your garnish you muft lay,
Or your coat will be in danger;

You must either strip or pay.
Ne'er repine at your confinement,

From your children or your wife;

Wifdom lives in true refignment,

Thro' the various fcenes of life. Scorn to fhew the leaft refentment, Tho' beneath the frowns of fate; Knaves and beggars find contentment, Fears and cares attend the great. Tho' our creditors are fpiteful,

And restrain our bodies here, Ufe will make a gaol delightful,

Since there's nothing elfe to fear. Ev'ry ifland's but a prifon,

Strongly guarded by the fea; Kings and princes, for that reason, Pris'ners are, as well as we.

What made the great Alexander

Weep at his unfriendly fate?
'Twas because he could not wander
Beyond this world's ftrong prifon-gate:
For the world is alfo bounded

By the heavens and itars above;
Why fhou'd we, then, be confounded,
Since there's nothing free but Jove?

SONG 265.

Sung at VAUXHALL,

YOUNG Colin protefts I'm his joy and delight;

He's ever unhappy when I'm from his fight.
He wants to go with me wherever I go.
The deuce fure is in him for plaguing me fo.
His pleasure all day is to fit by my fide;
He pipes and he fings, tho' I frown and I chide.
I bid him depart; but he fmiling, fays, No.
The deuce fure is in him for plaguing me fo.

He often requests me his flame to relieve;
I ask him what favour he means to receive?
His answer's a figh, while in blushes I glow.
What mortal bende him would plague a maid fo?

This breaft-knot he yesterday brought from the wake,

And foftly intreated I'd wear for his fake.
Such trifles 'tis easy enough to bestow;

I fure deferve more for his plaguing me fo.
He hands me each eve from the cot to the plain,
And meets me each morn to conduct me again;
But what's his intention I with 1 could know,
For I'd rather be marry'd, than plagu'd with
him fo.

My heart how it bounds when I hear her be

low!

But fay not 'tis love, for I answer, No, no.

She fings me a fong, and I echo it's ftrain;
Again, I cry, Jenny; fweet Jenny, again.
I kifs her sweet lips, as if there I could grow;
But fay not 'tis love, for I answer, No, no.

She tells me her faults, as the fits on my knee:
I chide her, and fwear fhe's an angel to me;
My fhoulder the taps, and fhe bids me think fo,
Who knows but the loves, tho' fhe answers,
No, no?

From beauty and wit, and good-humour, how I, Should prudence advife, and compel me to fly. Thy bounty, O fortune, make hafte to bestow, And let me deferve her, or ftill I'll fay, No.

While of all fenfe of care we're freed,
Beneath an oaken shade.

When lambkins under hedges bleat,
And rain feems in the fky;
Then to our oaken fafe retreat,
We'd both together hie!
There I'd repeat my vows of love
Unto my charming fair,

Whilft her dear flutt'ring heart would prove
A mind like mine fincere.

Let others fancy courtly joys,

I'd live in rural ease;

Then grandeur, buftle, pride, and noise,
Could ne'er my fancy please.
In Nanny ev'ry joy combines,
With grace and blooming youth,
Sincerity and virtue fhines,
With modefty and truth.

WHEN I beheld you all divine,

And fondly thought your paffion true, I, Chloe, call'd you only mine, And lov'd no other nymph but you. How cou'd I think a face fo fair,

Cou'd now fo falfe and fickle prove;, That you, who did so often swear, Wou'd ever break the bonds of love? But I no longer feel your chain,

Nor you poffefs your wonted pow'r; No longer I a flave remain,

A Chloe's captive, as before: But go, and other hearts beguile, Go, and fome other conqueft find; 'Tis you that fhew a flatt'ring fmile, 'Tis you can kill while yet you're kind.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

COME, Laura, and meet your fond fwain,
Ere Phoebus declines to the weft,
Nor let me ftili languish in pain;
Your prefence alone makes me bleft.
When abfent no pleasure I feel,
My paffions but ficken and die,

No power my tortures, my tortures can heal,
Unless ray dear Laura is by.

Then hafte to yon jeffamine grove,
Enjoy what no language can tell,
'Tis the feat of contentment and love,
Where peace and tranquility dwell,
There Cupid our hearts fhall unite,
There Hymen his altar fhall raife,

The mufes sweet fongs shall indite,

And charm the whole grove with their lays,

O think with fuch pleasures as these,
How time will glide fwiftly away,
Each friving the other to please,
Dull winter shall fimile as the May;

No happiness either will tafte,
But what we both jointly approve;
Then hither, dear charmer, O haste,
And blefs a fond fwain with your love.

SONG 271.

MARS TRIUMPHANT.

Sung at VAUXHALL.

NOW peace has fpread her downy wing,
And tuneful linnets fweetly fing,
No longer Phabe, wafte the time,
Enjoy the feafon in it's prime;
No more I court the found of arms,
"Tis love and beauty now have charms.
No longer war my bofom fires,
'Tis love alone my foul infpires:
But hark I hear the trumpet found,
Loud fhouts of war re-echo round,
I quit my love for war's alarms,
Ambition only now has charms;
'Tis war invites me to the field,
And love and beauty now muft yield.

SONG 272.

Sung at RANELAGH. RAIL no more, ye learned affes,

'Gainst the joys the bowl fupplies;
Sound it's depth, and fill your glasses,
Wisdom at the bottom lies;
Fill them higher ftill, and higher,
Shallow draughts perplex the rain;
Sipping quenches all our fire;
Bumpers light it up again.

Draw the scene for wit and pleasure;
Enter jollity and joy;
We for thinking have no leifure,
Manly mirth is our employ:
Since in life there's nothing certain,
We'll the prefent hour engage;
And when death fhall drop the curtain,
With applause we'll quit the stage.

SONG 273.

CROYDON'S REQUEST; A PASTORAL ELEGY.

Written by Mr. NICHOLLS.

COME, thepherds, attend whilft I fing,
Come, Philidel, hear me impart;
Should your Corydon die in the spring,
O grant the first wish of his heart.

From the elms which embroider the mead,
Select one whofe trunk's undecay'd,
And (when of it's branches 'tis freed)
Of that let my coffin be made.

Collect ev'ry flow'ret of May,

From the hawthorn the bloffoms divorce,

Take the lilacs fo fragrant, fo gay,

And ftrew them all over my corte,
E'en fuch let the villagers have,

The matrons who with me fo well,
To fcatter before to my grave,

As they move to the knoll of my knell.

Let those who are conftant in love,

My pall to the church-way fuftain;
Take rosemary, fresh from the grove,
To furnish the funeral train.

Of flow'rs let a garland be made,

Like that you was pleas'd to approve,
When under the fycamore fhade

You taught me the language of love.
When borne by the ruftics along,

Let this on my coffin be plac'd,
To fhew I was fond of the throng
Whom truth and fimplicity grac❜d.

Then high on the church-beam, in view,
Be't ung, that my love, when the's by,
May think on a shepherd fo true,

And his mem'ry greet with a figh.

With the reft let old Colin attend;

Bid the brightest young maids o'the dale;
And thus let them fing of a friend,
As they flowly move o'er the vale.

For titles he was not renown'd,

Nor riches, nor greatness of blood,
But our shepherd was conftantly found
A friend to the honest and good.
His face wore the fmile of content;
To all he was gentle and kind;
To treasure he never was bent,
Except 'twas the goods of the mind.
His temperance oft has been try'd ;
We know he was ever fincere;
And if he'd a tincture of pride,

'Twas thewn but when folly was near.

If he knew the diftrefs of a friend,
He felt more than words have exprefs'd;
To relieve was his ultimate end,
And gratitude govern'd his breast.
His Philidel reign'd in his heart;
Tho' wedded, he lov'd her fincere:
Let great ones go ftudy the part,

However exalted their sphere.
His flute and his paftoral fong

Have charm'd us the long fummer's day:
The maids of the ruftical throng
Have made him the theme of their lay.
E'en thus you may fing of a swain,

To reftlefs ambition unknown;
Whofe manners were eafy and plain,
Whofe faith was as pure as your own.
And then, you who wait him around,
If your kindness you wish to increase,
Lay Corydon deep in the ground,

That his body may moulder in peace.