Thus ev'ry beauteous object, that I view, Let not my pretty Sufan mourn; Love turns afide the balls that round me fly, See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, Left precious tears should drop from Sufan's eye. At dawn poor Stella danc'd and fung, THE GARLAND. Written by Mr. PRIOR. THE pride of ev'ry grove I chofe, The violet fweet, and lily fair, The dappled pink, and blufhing rofe, To deck my charming Chloe's hair. At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place Upon her brow the various wreathe; The flow'rs lefs blooming than her face, The fcent lefs fragrant than her breath. The flow'rs he wore along the day; And ev'ry nymph and fhepherd faid, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undrest at ey'ning, when the found Their colours loft, their odours past, She chang'd her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye the caft. That eye dropt fenfe diftinct and clear, As any mufe's tongue could speak; When from it's lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Diffembling what I knew too well, My love, my life, said I, explain, Bhis change of humour; pr'ythee, tell, That falling tear, what does it mean? She figh'd, the fmil'd; and to the flow'rs Pointing, the lovely moralift faid, The am'rous youth around her bow'd; At night her fatal knell was rung, I faw, and kifs'd her in her shroud. Such as the is, who dy'd to-day, Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy mufe difplay The juftice of thy Chloe's forrow. SONG 293. THE MORNING SALUTATION. Written by Mr. CONGREVE. SEE! the wakes! Sabina wakes! And now the fun begins to rife; Lefs glorious is the morn, that breaks From his bright beams, than her fair eyes. With light united day they give, But cifferent fates ere night fulfil: How many by his warmth will live! How many will her coldnefs kill! SONG 294. OH! HOW HOT IT IS! OH, the fultry month of June! All night long we're in a fweat, In the grove or meadow : Then upon the grafs we're laid; For a while, how clever! Panting with the noon-tide heat, Cooling cream, our thirft t' allay, Still we melt our tallow. Chairs, tools, benches, beds of down, Dinner waits, and down we fit, Nothing can delight us. Now the fun is fetting; SONG 295. A BUCK'S SONG. WOULD you taste the perfume of the morn, The tops of the mountains shall grace, It was Nimrod, the jovial and gay, To his mem'ry let's drink, SON G, 296. A FREE MASON'S SONG. WHEN quite a young spark, Who prov'd, in the end, At a door he then knock'd, Which quickly unlock'd, When he bid me to put a good face on, And not be afraid, For I fhould be made A free and an accepted mafon. My wishes were crown'd, Who made a most folemn oration; Then fhew'd me the light, And gave me the right Sign, token, and word, of a mafon, When I first faw the blaze! And how struck with the mystic occasion! Aftonish'd! I found, Tho' free, I was bound To a free and an accepted mafon. I took great delight In the work of this noble vocation: I was bound, it appears, For feven long years, Which to me is of trifling duration: With freedom 1 ferve, And strain ev'ry nerve To acquit myself like a good mafon. A bumper then fill With an hearty good will, To our mafter pay due veneration; Who taught us the art We ne'er will impart, Unless to an accepted mafon. SONG 297. To you, gay folks, in London town, Who flaunt each night at Marybone, While, faunt'ring here and there, you spend French-horns, or burnt Champaign; We think the blackbird's tuneful throat Sweet bird of night! complains, Thro' woods and glades we rove, The chearfut glafs diverts our fpleen, While fome with patriotic zeal, Vouchsafe the helm to fteer, And, ardent for the public weal, The pofts of honour share; It matters not, to fuch as we, Who holds the staff or wears the key. Let ftatefmen, vers'd in court grimace, Contend for pow'r and pay; To get a penfion, or a place, Cringe, flatter, and betray; A nobler prize we have in view, While love and friendship we purfue. 'Tis this that gilds our morning bright, And ev'ry cloud difpels; Nor chearlefs is the gloom of night, Where love with friendship dwells. Blefs'd fpot, where joys like these combine! Such, fuch are Thomfon's joys and mine. r. SONG 298. A SELECT ALBION'S SONG. YE tuneful nine, my fong infpire, To make our happiness compleat, We'll dauntless brave the hoftile plains, SONG 299. Written by Mr. BAKER. WOMAN! thoughtless, giddy creature! Laughing, idle, flutt'ring thing, Moft fantastic work of nature! And, at best, a pleafing dream. Conqu'ring weakness! wish'd for pain! But, in less than half an hour, SONG 3c0. WHEN her beams, that late warm'd me, Clariffa withdrew, How chang'd all at once, and how lifelefs I grew! Quite uneafy and restlefs, I rov'd up and down; I fat down to write, and endeavour'd to think, Then I pore'd o'er my books; fure, thought I, 'mongst the wife, I fhall meet with fome marvellous cure in a trice: But they honeftly told me, that what I endur'd Cou'd, alone, by the nymph who firft caus'd it, be cur'd; Then hafte, my Clariffa! to fhine on me, hafte, Left, benighted much longer, this verfe be my last. A girl, ball, or play, A review, or birth-day, Some a fiddle, or flute, And fome love a poker and tongs; Some admire duettos And others cantatas, And others, my fong upon fongs. Let all who've the spleen Such property to it belongs, As this is a fong upon fongs. But if you proceed, And continue to read Each fong which to this book belongs: You'll own, I believe, Many pleasure can give, Befides this our fong upon fongs. SONG 302. Sung at MARY BONE. THE fun, like any bridegroom gay, The flow'rets hail'd the birth of May, Befide the manfions where the great, Love whifper'd then in Damon's ear, So fweet his fong, the maiden rofe, In rural plain attire; The fair-one in his arms he press'd, And now the balls the happy time COLIN'S COMPLAINT. Written by Mr. Rowe. DESPAIRING befide a clear ftream, To his fighs with a figh did reply; Thus fadly complaining he cry'd; When first I beheld that fair face, 'Twere better by far I had dy'd s She talk'd, and I blefs'd the dear tongue; When the fmil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great: I liften'd, and cry'd, when the fung, How foolish was I to believe She could doat on fo lowly a clown! So kind and fo conftant would prove; What tho' I have skill to complain! Tho' the Mafes my temples have crown'd! And you, my companions fo dear, Forbear to accufe the falfe maid; 'Twas her's to be false and to change If, while my hard fate I fuftain, Is to fhade me with cyprefs and yew; Then to her new love let her go, No more fhall be talk/d of or feen, SONG 304. Sung at RANELAGH. WHEN Bacchus, jelly god, invites, In vain his altar I furround, Tho' with Burgundian incenfe crown'd: No charms has wine without the lass; 'Tis love gives relish to the glass. AIR. While all around, with jocund glee, SONG 305. WILLIAM AND MARGARET. WHEN all was wrapt in dark midnight, In glided Margret's grimly ghoft, Her face was like the April morn, So fhall the fairest face appear, Her bloom was like the springing flow'r, The rofe was budded in her cheek, But love had, like the canker-worm, The rofe grew pale, and left her cheek ş |