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Thus ev'ry beauteous object, that I view,
Wakes in my foul fome charms of lovely Sue.
Tho' battle call me from thy arms,

Let not my pretty Sufan mourn;
Tho' cannons roar, yet fafe from harms
William fhall to his dear return:

Love turns afide the balls that round me fly,

See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made!
Ah, me! the blooming pride of May
And that of beauty are but one;
At noon both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at ev'ning, pale and gone.

Left precious tears should drop from Sufan's eye. At dawn poor Stella danc'd and fung,

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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!
Written in June 1761.

OH, the fultry month of June!
Sweating late and early;
Able fcarce to hum a tune,
Oh! we fwelter rarely!

All night long we're in a fweat,
Sweating till the morning;
Piping hot then up we get,
Breakfast bell gives warning,
After tea we take a walk,

In the grove or meadow :
Oh! how hot! is all our talk;
None e'er fweat as we do.

Then upon the grafs we're laid;

For a while, how clever!
Soon the fun darts thro' the fhade,
We're as hot as ever,

Panting with the noon-tide heat,
Homeward next we ftroll, Sir,
All befmear'd with duft and sweat,
Dolly brings the bowl, Sir.

Cooling cream, our thirft t' allay,
Eager now we swallow;
Cyder too, and curds and whey;

Still we melt our tallow.
Chairs, ftools, benches, reftlefs growna
Now we try to eafe us;

Chairs, tools, benches, beds of down,
Nothing now can please us.

Dinner waits, and down we fit,
Fish and flesh invite us;
Not a morfel can we eat,

Nothing can delight us.
From our liquors, ftrong or weak,
We derive no pleasure;
Cooling draughts in vain we feek,
Sweating beyond measure.
Ev'ning now comes on apace,

Now the fun is fetting;
Shadows fkim the meadow's face,
But we still are sweating.
Sweating thus from day to day,
Pitying pow'rs befriend us!
And, instead of June fo gay,
Winter once more fend us!

SONG 295.

A BUCK'S SONG.

WOULD you taste the perfume of the morn,
While the dew-drops bespangle the thorn;
Hark, away, when the founds
Of the merry-mouth'd hounds
Keep time with the mellow-ton'd horn;
Ere Phoebus with round ruddy face

The tops of the mountains shall grace,
To the sports of the day
Brother Bucks hafte away,
Purfue with new vigour the chace.

It was Nimrod, the jovial and gay,
Who first taught us to hunt for the prey;
And with full-flowing bowls
To enliven our fouls,
And joyously finish the day:
Due homage then pay at his fhrine,
Pour mighty libations of wine;
Fill up to the brink,

To his mem'ry let's drink,
Proclaim our great founder, divine.

SON G, 296.

A FREE MASON'S SONG.

WHEN quite a young spark,
I was in the dark,
And wanted to alter my station;
I went to a friend,

Who prov'd, in the end,
A free and an accepted mafon.

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,
And a mafter I found,

Who made a most folemn oration;

Then fhew'd me the light,

And gave me the right

Sign, token, and word, of a mafon,
How great my amaze,

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.
When cloathed in white,

I took great delight

In the work of this noble vocation:
And knowledge I gain'd,
When the lodge he explain'd
Of a free and an accepted mason.

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,
In fummer who refide,

Who flaunt each night at Marybone,
And each fine place befide,

While, faunt'ring here and there, you spend
Your hours to you these lines I fend.
With eafe and foft contentment blefs'd,
We laugh at folly's train,
Nor figh for joys by you poflefs'd,

French-horns, or burnt Champaign;
The fragrant lily, and the rofe,
Far, far outfhine your belles and beaus.
Let Brent with fing-fong trilling note
Regale your nicer ears;

We think the blackbird's tuneful throat
The mufic of the spheres;
The fweeter linnet and the thrush,
Our concerts make in ev'ry bush.
While Philomel, in fhades remote,

Sweet bird of night! complains,
We liften to each warbling note, -
Inchanted with her strains;
And when the tuneful dirge is o'er,
We cara! cry-Encore, Encore!
When fultry funs dart fiercer beams,

Thro' woods and glades we rove,
Or haunt the fide of purling ftreams,
Our pleasures to improve;
Thus, thus, we pass the live-long day,
Nor heed we what your great ones fay.
When, pinch'd with northern blaft fo keen,
We hun the cool retreat,

The chearfut glafs diverts our fpleen,
At dinner when we meet;
In fober chat our time we kill,
Or play at whiftor dear quadrille.

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,
And fill each breaft with rapt'rous fire;
Affift with ev'ry trembling string,
To make the vaulted cieling ring;
While we record, in choral ftrains,
The band where union truly reigns.
Here friendship's feen in ev'ry face,
And gives to mirth a focial grace;
Here, peace and plenty, ever smile,
To blefs the fons of Albion's ifle;
And fceptre'd wisdom ne'er difdains
To join the band where union reigns.
With feftal fong, and rofy wine,
We offer up at Bacchus' fhrine,
Who bleeds the grape for Albion's chear,
Tho' France, and Spain, the vineyards rear;
With Nectar he recruits our veins,
And joins the band where union reigns.

To make our happiness compleat,
Here liberty has fix'd her feat;
And does each Albion fon inspire
With free-born courage, matchless fire:
No breach of honour ever ftains
The band where union truly reigns.
Should Spain with haughty ftride advance,
And proudly shake her feeble lance;
Or Gallia's fons (afpiring race)
Attempt to wound fair Albion's peace;

We'll dauntless brave the hoftile plains,
And prove, with Albions, union reigns.
Then fill the goblets to the brink,
And let each worthy brother drink
Succefs to Albion, and her caufe,
Her rights, her liberties, and laws;
And joyous fing, in choral trains,
The band where union truly reigns.

SONG 299.

Written by Mr. BAKER. WOMAN! thoughtless, giddy creature! Laughing, idle, flutt'ring thing,

Moft fantastic work of nature!
Still, like fancy, on the wing.
Slave to ev'ry changing paffion,
Loving, hating, in extreme;
Fond of ev'ry foolish fashion,

And, at best, a pleafing dream.
Lovely trifle! dear illufion!

Conqu'ring weakness! wish'd for pain!
Man's chief glory, and confufion;
Of all vanities moft vain.
Thus, deriding beauty's power,
Bevil call'd it all a cheat;

But, in less than half an hour,
Kneel'd and whin'd at Celia's feet.

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;
So ftrange a diforder fure never was known.

I fat down to write, and endeavour'd to think,
But no ufe could I make of my dear pen and ink:
I flew to my claret, that balm of the mind!
But, ah! in my claret no eafe cou'd I find!
In diverfions I next hop'd to get fome relief;
But diverfions, how vain! to a heart full of
grief!

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.

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A girl, ball, or play,

A review, or birth-day,
Or even a fong upon fongs.
Guitars with some fuit,

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
Buy this Magazine;

Such property to it belongs,
It will give them a cure,
As certain and fure

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,
Rofe to falute the spring,

The flow'rets hail'd the birth of May,
And birds began to fing;
When Damon tript it o'er the plain,
Dear Chloe's heart to win;
But at the window tapp'd in vain,
She would not let him in.

Befide the manfions where the great,
From glorious feats retir'd,
The Druids us'd to celebrate
The virtues they admir'd :
L

Love whifper'd then in Damon's ear,
And bade his fong begin:
And thus he fung to pleafe the fair,
In hopes he'd let him in.

So fweet his fong, the maiden rofe,

In rural plain attire;
And like the genial deafon glows
With thrilling foft defi e:
But, angry hike, by love controul'd,
Cry'd, Shepherd, why this din?
Why wake me thus? I've often told
I ne'er would let you in.

The fair-one in his arms he press'd,
And kifs'd her o'er and o'er:
And who, with honour in his breast,
Could then have thought on more?
To church he led her in her prime,
For pleafure void of fin;

And now the balls the happy time
When firft the let him in.

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COLIN'S

COMPLAINT.

Written by Mr. Rowe.

DESPAIRING befide a clear ftream,
A fhepherd forfaken was laid;
And while a falfe nymph was his theme,
A willow fupported his head.
The winds that blew over the plain,

To his fighs with a figh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas! filly fwain that I was!

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,
Was nightingale ever so sweet!

How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on fo lowly a clown!
Or that her fond heart would not grieve
To forfake the fine folk of the town!
To think that a beauty fo gay,

So kind and fo conftant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in grey,
Or live in a cottage on love?

What tho' I have skill to complain!

Tho' the Mafes my temples have crown'd!
What tho', when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins fit weeping around!
Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel refign;
Thy falfe-one inclines to a fwain
Whofe mufic is fweeter than thine.

And you, my companions fo dear,
Who forrow to fee me betray'd,
Whatever I fuffer, forbear,

Forbear to accufe the falfe maid;
Tho' through the wide world I should range,
Tis in vain from my fortune to fly j

'Twas her's to be false and to change
'Tis mine to be conftant and die.

If, while my hard fate I fuftain,
In her breaft any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And fee me laid low in the ground.
The laft humble boon that I crave,

Is to fhade me with cyprefs and yew;
And when the looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her shepherd was true.

Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array;
Be fineft at ev'ry fine show,
And frolic it all the long day:
While Colin, forgotten and gone,

No more fhall be talk/d of or feen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghoft fhall glide over the green!

SONG 304.

Sung at RANELAGH.
RECITATIVE.

WHEN Bacchus, jelly god, invites,
To revel in his ev'ning rites;

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,
In brimmers toaft the fav'rite the;
Tho' ev'ry nymph my lips proclaim,
My heart ftill whispers Chloe's name ;
And thus, with me, by am'rous stealth,
Still ev'ry glafs is Chloe's health.

SONG 305.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

WHEN all was wrapt in dark midnight,
And all were faft alleep,

In glided Margret's grimly ghoft,
And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like the April morn,
Clad in a wint'ry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held the fable shroud,

So fhall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown;
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flow'r,
That fips the filver dew;

The rofe was budded in her cheek,
And op'ning to the view.)

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Confum'd her early prime :

The rofe grew pale, and left her cheek ş
She dy'd before her time.

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