With scornful look, the youth reply'd,
Can nought thofe charms infpire
To fuch the Gods would be ally'd,
Perfection all admire.

He ftraight let fly an arrow keen,
A chafm wide was op'd;
Soft pleasure flow'd, I view'd the mein,
To gain her all I hop'd.

TH

SONG.

The Dying Rofe.

Sung by Mr. Wilson, at Ranelagh.

Recitative.

HE balmy Zephyrs breath'd their flore,
And wav'd the gentle breeze;

The bufy day of toil was o'er,

And Nature fought for eafe.

Air.

"Twas near a daify-fprinkl'd mead, A blufhing rofe I found, Wafting its odours in the air,

Its sweetness on the ground.

Sweet flow't, I cry'd, how short thy bloom!

And fnatch'd it to my breaft:.

Here may'ft thou shed thy laft perfume,
And find eternal reft.

Yet no-to Delia's bofom fteal,
Who boasts her youthful prime,.
And tell her plainly that her charms
Too foon muft fade like thine.

Then

Then on her bofom breathe thy last,
While I thy fate deplore!

And mark with forrow at thy doom,
That thou shalt bloom no more!

"T"

S ON G..

Mary of the Dale.

Sung by Mr. Wilson, at Ranelagh.

WAS at the cool and fragrant hour,
When evening fteals upon the fky,

When lovers feek the filent bow'r,

Young William taught the grove to figh;
His heav'nly form and beauteous air,
Were like the flow'ry vale,

Yet did he figh, and all for love
Of Mary of the Dale..

When o'er the mountain peeps the dawn,
Opprefs'd with grief he'd often ftray,
O'er rifing hill and fertile lawn,

To figh and weep his cares away:
Tho' he had charms to win each fair,
That dwells within the vale,
Yet did he figh, and all for love
Of Mary of the Dale..

The merry dance, the chearful fong,
Could now no more a charm impart,

No more his hours glide smooth along,
For grief lay heavy at his heart:

This cheek, where health with beauty glow'd,

Was like the primrose pale,

Sighing, he died, and all for love

Of Mary of the Dale.

SONG.

O Dear, I'm So Pleas'd!

Sung by Mifs Poole.

HEN Strephon appears, how my heart pit

WH

a pat, Shews the tender emotions with which it is feiz'd; To the fhepherd's bewitching gay innocent chat, I cou'd liften for ever-O dear, I'm fo pleas'd.

Tho' my grandmother frowns, and protefts I'm to young

With the leffons of Cupid fo foon to be teiz'd; But fo fweet is the honey that falls from his tongue, That I laugh at my grannam-O dear, I'm so pleas'd.

Shou'd he ask me to wed, as he hinted to-day,

When my hand he fo foft and fo tenderly fqueez'd; He's fo pretty a swain, that I can't say him nay, I'm refolv'd to be marry'd-O dear, I'm fo pleas'd.

SONG.

The Fox Chace.

Sung by Mr. Incledon, at Vauxhall Gardens.

A

T the found of the horn,

We rife in the morn,

And waken the woods.as we thunder along.

Yoix, yoix, tally O,
After Reynard we go,

While echo on echo we double the fong.

Not

Not the ftuds of the fun

Our brave courfers out-run,

O'er the mound, horfe and bound, fee us bound in full

cry:

Like Phoebus we rife

To the height of the skies,

And, careless of danger, five bars we defy.

We waken the woods, &c.

At eve, Sir, we rush,

And are clofe to his brufh;

Already he dies-fee him panting for breath..

Each feat and defeat

We renew and repeat,

Regardless of life, fo we're in at the death.

We waken the woods, &c.

With a bottle at night,

We prolong the delight,

Much Trimbush we praife, and the deeds that were

done:

And yoix, tally O,

The next morning we go,
With Phoebus to end, as we mount with the fun.

SON G.

The Banks of Yarrowo.

Sung by Mifs Bertles, at Vauxhall Gardens.

T

HE morn was fair, foft was the air,
All Nature's fweets were fpringing;

The buds did bow with filver dew,
Ten thou and birds were finging.
When on the bent, wi' b ithe content,
I first met Jem, my marrow:
Whate'er betide, I'll be his bride,
Upon the Banks of Yarrow;

B. 5

With

With him I'll ftray,

And fondly play.

Upon the Banks of Yarrow.

How fweet his face, where ev'ry grace
And manly beauty's planted;
His fmiling een and comely mein,
That ne perfection wanted.
I'll never fret, nor ban my fate,
But blefs my bonny marrow;

While his dear fmiles all doubt beguiles
Upon the Banks of Yarrow.

With him, &c. &c.

O, Jem, if you should prove untrue,
My ghaift fhall foon affright ye:
But if you're kind, wi' joyful mind,
I'll ftudy to delight ye.

Our years around wi' love are crown'd,
From all things joy shall borrow;

Thus, none fhall be more bleft than we,
Upon the banks of Yarrow.

With him, &c. &c.

JE

SONG.

Je Penfe à Vous.

Sung by Mr. Incledon, at Vauxhall

E penfe à vous-where'er I flray, While forrow marks my lonely way; The fports of Spring unmov'd I view, Alone I figh and think of you.

Ah! why in abfence do I mourn,
Why vainly wish for your return;

Je pense à vous.