HERE fhall Celia fly for fhelter ?
To what fecret grove or cave?
Sighs and fonnets fent to melt her,
From the young, the gay, the brave.
Tho' with prudish airs fhe ftarch her,"
Still the longs and ftill fhe burns
Cupid fhoots, like Hymen's archer,
Wherefoe'er the damfel turns.
Virtue, youth, good sense, and beauty,
(If difcretion guide us not)
Sometimes are the ruffian's booty,
Sometimes are the booby's lot:
Now they're purchas'd by the trader,
Now commanded by the peer;
Now fome fubtle, mean invader
Wins the heart, or gains the ear.
O difcretion thou'rt a jewel,
Or our grand-mamas mistake,
Stinting flame, by bating fuel,
Always careful and awake.
Would you keep your pearls from tramplers,
Weigh the licence, weigh the banns:
Mark my fong upon your famplers,
Wear it on your knots and fans.
Sugg in the Strangers at Home...
OOD Sir, in vain you bend
And look fo queer, I know not how,
And fet your arms a-kimbo;
My laughter you provoke,
Oh! oh! oh! oh!
Ha ha ha! ha!
So pleasant is the joke.
If, fir, I choose to try my skill
Of fencing, foon you'd have your fill;
But mighty Signior Whiskers,
With you I won't engage,
Oh! ho! ho! ho!
Ha! ha ha! ha!
A fig for all your rage.
Nay, prithee friend, don't draw your fword:
I shan't draw mine upon my word;
Nor could I fight for laughing,
Were I to look at you:
Oh! ho! ho! ho!
Ha ha ha ha! And so sweet fir, adieu.
SONG.
Sung in the Poor Soldier.
HE Spring with fmiling face is feen,
To usher in the May;
And nature clad in mantle green,
All sprig'd with flow'rets gay:
The feather'd fongfters of the grove,
Then join in harmony and love.
L
The larkahat foaring cleaves the skies,.
sites
Lov builds her humble neft;
The rambling boy that finds the prize,
Is fure fupremely bleft:
For when the men birdsofwn
He hates, and marks it for his own.
H
TOW happy a fiate does the virgin poffefs,
Whoic innocent. bojom
no troubles diftrefs!
She's ever brifk, ity, good-humour'd, and
No cares to moleft her by night or by day;
No husband controuls her, or croffes her will,
But o'er all her actions the mitress is ftill;
In freedom and pleasure the paffes her life;
It fo happy a virgin, who would be a wife?
: know they wzib taob jún.
No bantlings to teaze her, or break her night's reft,
With peace and content all her moments are blett,
She fps 'till 'tis time in the morning to rife,o:
And ev'ry new day some new pleasure fupplies;
Surrounded abroad by a croud of fmart beaux
Who are proud to attend her wherever he goes ;
Abg her they warm like the bees to their hives
If fo happy when virgins, who then would be wives?
Let the wife boaft of conjugal bliss if the please,
Bogut at the expence of her feedom and ease;
Contin'd by her cares, ftill at home the muft ftay,
Whilt abroad we can range to park, ball, and play."
Thro' a maze of foft pleasure our actions we theer,
And when we return, we've no husbands to fear,
To oteaze us, and vex us, and tire out our lives;
Ifo happy when virgins, who then would be wives?
SO N' G.
Sung in the Christmas Tale.
Yeyes may fpeak pleafure, Tongue flow without' measure, Yet my heart in my bofom lies ftift; Thus the river is flowing,
The mill-clapper going,
But the miller's afleep in his mill.
Though lovers furround me,
With fpeeches confound me,
my heart in my bofom les ftill;'
Thus the river is flowing, wild .
The mill-clapper going,
But the miller's afleep in his mill.
The little god eyes me,
And thinks to furprife me,
But my heart is awake in my breaft;
Thus boys flily creeping
Would catch the bird fleeping,
But the linnet's awake in his net!
SONG.
Sung in the Capricicus Lovers.
ROM flow'r to flow'r the butterfly, O'er fields or gardens ranging, Sips fweets from each, and futters by, And all his life is changing.
Thus roving
man new objects fway
By various charms delighted;
While the who pleafes molt
To-morrow fhall be fligh
SON G.
The Lafs of Patie's Mill.
HE lafs of Patie's mill,
So bonny, blithe, and gay,
In spite of all my skill,
Hath ftole my heart away.
When tedding of the hay
Bare-headed on the green, Love 'midft her locks did play, And wanton'd in her een.
Her arms, white, round, and smooth,
Breafts rifing in their dawn;
To age it would give youth,
To prefs 'em with his hand.
Thro' all my fpirits ran
An extafy of bliss,
When I fuch fweetness fann'd,
Wrapt in a balmy kifs.
Without the help of art,
Like flow'rs which grace the wild,
She did her fweets impart,
Whene'er the spoke or smil'd.
Her looks they were so mild,
Free from affected pride,
She me to love beguil'd,
I wish'd her for my bride.
O had I all that wealth
Hoptoun's high mountains fil, Infur'd long life and health,
And pleafures at my will;
I'd promife and fulfil,
That none but bonny fhe,
The lafs of Patic's mill,
Shou'd fhare the fame with me.
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