Were us'd all in vighting;
Ch've heard my Father swear and swagger,
That it was but a Flea-biting:
_But these Guns_, &c.
Ise would vight with the best of our Parish,
And play at Whisters with _Mary_;
Cou'd thump the Vootball, yerk the Morrie,
And box at Visticuffs with any:
_But these Guns_, &c.
Varewel _Dick_, _Tom_, _Ralph_ and _Hugh_,
My Maypoles make all heretofore;
Varewel _Doll_, _Kate_, _Zis_ and _Zue_,
For I shall never zee you more:
_For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay,
Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how._
_A_ SONG _in Praise of Punch._
[Music]
Come fill up the Bowl with the Liquor that fine is,
And much more Divine is,
Than now a-days Wine is, with all their Art,
None here can controul:
The Vintner despising, tho' Brandy be rising,
'Tis Punch that must chear the Heart:
The Lovers complaining, 'twill cure in a trice,
And _Caelia_ disdaining, shall cease to be nice,
_Come fill up the Bowl_, &c.
Thus soon you'll discover, the cheat of each Lover,
When free from all Care you'll quickly find,
As Nature intended 'em willing and kind:
_Come fill up the Bowl_, &c.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
Bonny _Peggy Ramsey_ that any Man may see,
And bonny was her Face, with a fair freckel'd Eye,
Neat is her Body made, and she hath good Skill,
And square is her Wethergig made like a Mill:
_With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_
_Bonny_ Peggy Ramsey _she gives weel her Mill._
_Peggy_ to the Mill is gone to grind a Bowl of Mault,
The Mill it wanted Water, and was not that a fault;
Up she pull'd her Petticoats and piss'd into the Dam,
For six Days and seven Nights she made the Mill to gang;
_With a hey_, &c.
Some call her _Peggy_, and some call her _Jean_,
But some calls her Midsummer, but they all are mista'en;
For _Peggy_ is a bonny Lass, and grinds well her Mill,
For she will be Occupied when others they lay still:
_With a hey_, &c.
_Peg_, thee and Ise grin a poke, and we to War will leanes,
Ise lay thee flat upon thy Back and then lay to the steanes;
Ise make hopper titter totter, haud the Mouth as still,
When twa sit, and eane stand, merrily grind the Mill:
_With a hey_, &c.
Up goes the Clap, and in goes the Corn,
Betwixt twa rough steans _Peggy_ not to learn;
With a Dam full of Water that she holdeth still,
To pour upon the Clap for burning of the Mill:
_With a hey_, &c.
Up she pull'd the Dam sure and let the Water in,
The Wheel went about, and the Mill began to grind:
The spindle it was hardy, and the steanes were they well pickt,
And the Meal fell in the Mill Trough, and ye may all come lick:
_With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_
_Bonny_ Peggy Ramsey _she gives weel her Mill._
_A_ SONG.
_Writ by the Famous Mr._ NAT. LEE.
_Philander_ and _Sylvia_, a gentle soft Pair,
Whose business was loving, and kissing their Care;
In a sweet smelling Grove went smiling along,
'Till the Youth gave a vent to his Heart with his Tongue:
Ah _Sylvia_! said he, (and sigh'd when he spoke)
Your cruel resolves will you never revoke?
No never, she said, how never, he cry'd,
'Tis the Damn'd that shall only that Sentence abide.
She turn'd her about to look all around,
Then blush'd, and her pretty Eyes cast on the Ground;
She kiss'd his warm Cheeks, then play'd with his Neck,
And urg'd that his Reason his Passion would check:
Ah _Philander_! she said, 'tis a dangerous Bliss,
Ah! never ask more and I'll give thee a Kiss;
How never? he cry'd, then shiver'd all o'er,
No never, she said, then tripp'd to a Bower.
She stopp'd at the Wicket, he cry'd let me in,
She answer'd, I wou'd if it were not a sin;
Heav'n sees, and the Gods will chastise the poor Head
Of _Philander_ for this; straight Trembling he said,
Heav'n sees, I confess, but no Tell-tales are there,
She kiss'd him and cry'd, you're an Atheist my Dear;
And shou'd you prove false I should never endure:
How never? he cry'd, and straight down he threw her.
Her delicate Body he clasp'd in his Arms,
He kiss'd her, he press'd her, heap'd charms upon charms;
He cry'd shall I now? no never, she said,
Your Will you shall never enjoy till I'm dead:
Then as if she were dead, she slept and lay still,
Yet even in Death bequeath'd him a smile:
Which embolden'd the Youth his Charms to apply,
Which he bore still about him to cure those that die.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
Your Hay it is mow'd, and your Corn is reap'd,
Your Barns will be full, and your Hovels heap'd;
Come, my Boys come,
Come, my Boys come,
And merrily roar our Harvest home:
Harvest home,
Harvest home,
And merrily roar our Harvest home.
_Come, my Boys come_, &c.
We ha' cheated the Parson, we'll cheat him agen,
For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten:
One in Ten,
One in Ten,
For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten,
_One in Ten_, &c.
For prating too long, like a Book learnt Sot,
'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot:
Burnt to Pot,
Burnt to Pot,
'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot.
_Burnt to Pot_, &c.
We'll toss off our Ale till we cannot stand,
And hey for the Honour of old _England_;
Old _England_,
Old _England_,
And hey for the Honour of old _England_,
_Old_ England, _&c._
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
I prithee send me back my Heart,
Since I cannot have thine:
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should you have mine.
Yet now I think on't, let it be,
To send it me is vain;
Thou hast a Thief in either Eye,
Will steal it back again.
Why should two Hearts in one Breast be,
And yet not be together;
Or Love, where is thy Sympathy,
If thou our Hearts do sever?
But Love is such a Mystery,
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I am best resolv'd,
Then I am most in Doubt.
Then farewel Care, then farewel Woe,
I will no longer pine;
But I'll believe I have her Heart,
As well as she hath mine.
BACCHUS _turn'd Doctor. The Words by_ BEN. JOHNSON.
[Music]
Let Soldiers fight for Pay and Praise,
And Money be Misers wish;
Poor Scholars study all their Days,
And Gluttons glory in their Dish:
_'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_
_Therefore give us chearing Bowls._
Let Minions marshal in their Hair,
And in a Lover's lock delight;
And artificial Colours wear,
We have the Native Red and White.
_'Tis Wine_, &c.
Your Pheasant, Pout, and Culver Salmon,
And how to please your Palates think:
Give us a salt _Westphalia-Gammon_,
Not Meat to eat, but Meat to drink.
_'Tis Wine_, &c.
It makes the backward Spirits brave,
That lively, that before was dull;
Those grow good Fellows that are grave,
And kindness flows from Cups brim full,
_'Tis Wine_, &c.
Some have the Ptysick, some the Rhume,
Some have the Palsie, some the Gout;
Some swell with Fat, and some consume,
But they are sound that drink all out.
_'Tis Wine_, &c.
Some Men want Youth, and some want Health,
Some want a Wife, and some a Punk;
Some Men want Wit, and some want Wealth,
But he wants nothing that is drunk.
_'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_
_Therefore give us chearing Bowls._
JENNY _making Hay._
[Music]
Poor _Jenny_ and I we toiled,
In a long Summer's Day;
Till we were almost foiled,
With making of the Hay;
Her Kerchief was of Holland clear,
Bound low upon her Brow;
Ise whisper'd something in her Ear,
_But what's that to you?_
Her Stockings were of Kersey green,
Well stitcht with yellow Silk;
Oh! sike a Leg was never seen,
Her Skin as white as Milk:
Her Hair as black as any Crow,
And sweet her Mouth was too;
Oh _Jenny_ daintily can mow,
_But_, &c.
Her Petticoats were not so low,
As Ladies they do wear them;
She needed not a Page I trow,
For I was by to bear them:
Ise took them up all in my Hand,
And I think her Linnen too;
Which made me for to make a stand;
_But_, &c.
King _Solomon_ had Wives enough,
And Concubines a Number;
Yet Ise possess more happiness,
And he had more of Cumber;
My Joys surmount a wedded Life,
With fear she lets me mow her;
A Wench is better than a Wife,
_But_, &c.
The Lilly and the Rose combine,
To make my _Jenny_ fair;
There's no Contentment sike as mine;
I'm almost void of Care:
But yet I fear my _Jenny's_ Face,
Will cause more Men to woe;
Which if she should, as I do fear,
_Still, what is that to you?_
_The Knotting_ SONG. _The Words by Sir_ CHARLES SYDNEY.
[Music]
Hears not my _Phillis_ how the Birds,
Their feather'd Mates salute:
They tell their Passion in their Words,
Must I alone, must I alone be mute:
Phillis _without a frown or smile,_
_Sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while._
The God of Love in thy bright Eyes,
Does like a Tyrant Reign;
But in thy Heart a Child he lies,
Without a Dart or Flame.
_Phillis_, &c.
So many Months in silence past,
And yet in raging Love;
Might well deserve one word at last,
My Passion should approve.
_Phillis_, &c.
Must then your faithful Swain expire,
And not one look obtain;
Which to sooth his fond desire,
Might pleasingly explain.
_Phillis_, &c.
_The_ FRENCH KING _in a foaming Passion for the loss of his Potent
Army in the_ NETHERLANDS, _which were Routed by his Grace the Duke of_
MARLBOROUGH.
[Music]
Old _Lewis le Grand_,
He raves like a Fury,
And calls for _Mercury_;
Quoth he, if I can,
I'll finish my Days;
For why should I live?
Since the Fates will not give
One affable smile:
Great _Marlborough_ Conquers,
Great _Marlborough_ Conquers,
I'm ruin'd the while.
The Flower of _France_,
And Troops of my Palace
Which march'd from _Versales_
Who vow'd to Advance,
With Conquering Sword,
Are cut, hack'd and hew'd,
I well may conclude,
They're most of them Slain:
Oh! what will become of,
Oh! what will become of,
My Grand-Son in _Spain_.
My fortify'd Throne,
Propt up by Oppression,
Must yield at Discretion,
For needs must I own,
My Glory decays:
Bold _Marlborough_ comes
With ratling Drums,
And thundering Shot,
He drives all before him,
He drives all before him,
Oh! Where am I got?
He pushes for Crowns,
And slays my Commanders,
And Forces in _Flanders_;
Great Capital Towns,
For _CHARLES_ has declar'd:
These things like a Dart,
Has pierced my Heart,
And threatens my Death;
Here do I lye sighing,
Here do I lye sighing,
And Panting for Breath.
This passionate Grief,
Draws on my Diseases,
Which fatally ceases
My Spirits in chief,
A fit of the Gout,
The Gravel and Stone,
I have 'tis well known,
At this horrid News,
Of _Marlborough's_ Triumph,
Of _Marlborough's_ Triumph,
All Battles I lose.
Wherever he comes,
He is bold and Victorious,
Successful and glorious,
My two Royal Thumbs
With anguish I bite:
To hear his Success;
Yet nevertheless,
My passion's in vain:
I pity my Darling,
I pity my Darling,
Young _Philip_ in _Spain_.
I am out of my Wits,
If e'er I had any;
My Foes they are many,
Which plagues me by fits,
In _Flanders_ and _Spain_:
I'm sick at my Heart,
To think we must part,
With what we enjoy'd,
Towns, Castles, are taken,
Towns, Castles, are taken,
My Troops are destroy'd.
I am I declare,
In a weak Condition,
Go call my Physician,
And let him prepare
Some comfort with speed,
Without all delay,
Assist me I pray,
And hear my Complaint,
A Dram of the Bottle,
A Dram of the Bottle,
Or else I shall faint.
Should I slip my Breath,
At this dreadful Season,
I think it but Reason,
I should lay my Death,
To the daring Foes,
Whose Fire and Smoak,
Has certainly broke,
The Heart in my Breast:
Oh! bring me a Cordial,
Oh! bring me a Cordial,
And lay me to Rest.
_A_ SONG. _Set by Captain_ PACK.
[Music]
Would you be a Man in Fashion?
Would you lead a Life Divine?
Take a little Dram of Passion, (a little dram of Passion)
In a lusty Dose of Wine
If the Nymph has no Compassion,
Vain it is to sigh and groan:
Love was but put in for Fashion,
Wine will do the Work alone.
_A_ SONG.
_Set by Mr._ THO. FARMER.
[Music]
Though the Pride of my Passion fair _Sylvia_ betrays,
And frowns at the Love I impart;
Though kindly her Eyes twist amorous Rays,
To tye a more fortunate Heart:
Yet her Charms are so great, I'll be bold in my Pain,
His Heart is too tender,
Too tender, that's struck with Disdain.
Still my Heart is so just to my Passionate Eyes,
It dissolves with Delight while I gaze:
And he that loves on, though _Sylvia_ denies,
His Love but his Duty obeys:
I no more can refrain her neglects to pursue,
Than the force, the force
Of her Beauty can cease to subdue.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
When first I fair _Celinda_ knew,
Her Kindness then was great:
Her Eyes I cou'd with Pleasure view,
And friendly Rays did meet:
In all Delights we past the time,
That could Diversion move;
She oft would kindly hear me Rhime
Upon some others Love:
_She oft would kindly hear me Rhime,_
_Upon some others Love._
But ah! at last I grew too bold,
Prest by my growing Flame;
For when my Passion I had told,
She hated ev'n my Name:
Thus I that cou'd her Friendship boast,
And did her Love pursue;
And taught Contentment at the cost,
Of Love and Friendship too.
_A_ SONG.
_Set by Mr._ FISHBURNE.
[Music]
Long had _Damon_ been admir'd,
By the Beauties of the Plain;
Ev'ry Breast warm Love inspir'd,
For the proper handsome Swain:
The choicest Nymph _Sicilia_ bred,
Was won by his resistless Charms:
Soft Looks, and Verse as smooth, had led
And left the Captive in his Arms.
But our _Damon's_ Soul aspires,
To a Goddess of his Race;
Though he sues with chaster Fires,
This his Glories does deface:
The fatal News no sooner blown
In Whispers up the Chesnut Row;
The God _Sylvanus_ with a Frown,
Blasts all the Lawrels on his Brow.
Swains be wise, and check desire
In it's soaring, when you'll woe:
_Damon_ may in Love require
_Thestyles_ and _Laura_ too:
When Shepherds too ambitious are,
And Court _Astrea_ on a Throne;
Like to the shooting of a Star,
They fall, and thus their shining's gone.
_A_ SONG.
_Set by Mr._ FISHBURN.
[Music]
Pretty _Floramel_, no Tongue can ever tell,
The Charms that in thee dwell;
Those Soul-melting Pleasures,
Shou'd the mighty _Jove_ once view, he'd be in Love,
And plunder all above,
To rain down his Treasure:
Ah! said the Nymph in the Shepherd's Arms,
Had you half so much Love as you say I have Charms;
There's not a Soul, created for Man and Love,
More true than _Floramel_ wou'd prove,
I'd o'er the World with thee rove.
Love that's truly free, had never Jealousie,
But artful Love may be
Both doubtful and wooing;
Ah! dear Shepherdess, ne'er doubt, for you may guess,
My Heart will prove no less,
Than ever endless loving:
Then cries the Nymph, like the Sun thou shalt be,
And I, like kind Earth, will produce all to thee;
Of ev'ry Flower in Love's Garden I'll Off'rings pay
To my Saint. Nay then pray
Take not those dear Eyes away.
_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ ROBERT KING.
[Music]
By shady Woods and purling Streams,
I spend my Life in pleasing Dreams;
And would not for the World be thought
To change my false delightful Thought:
For who, alas! can happy be,
That does the Truth of all things see?
_For who, alas! can happy be,_
_That does the Truth of all things see._
_A_ SONG. _Sett by Mr._ HENRY PURCELL.
[Music]
In _Chloris_ all soft Charms agree,
Enchanting Humour pow'rful Wit;
Beauty from Affectation free,
And for Eternal Empire fit:
Where-e'er she goes, Love waits her Eyes,
The Women Envy, Men adore;
Tho' did she less the Triumph Prize,
She wou'd deserve the Conquest more.
But Vanity so much prevails,
She begs what else none can deny her;
And with inviting treach'rous Smiles
Gives hopes which ev'n prevent desire:
Reaches at every trifling Heart,
Grows warm with ev'ry glimm'ring Flame:
And common Prey so deads her Dart,
It scarce can wound a noble Game.
I could lye Ages at her Feet,
Adore her careless of my Pain;
With tender Vows her Rigour meet,
Despair, love on, and not complain:
My Passion from all change secur'd,
Favours may rise, no Frown controuls;
I any Torment can endure,
But hoping with a crowd of Fools.
_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ THO. FARMER.
[Music]
When busie Fame o'er all the Plain,
_Velinda's_ Praises rung;
And on their Oaten Pipes each Swain
Her matchless Beauty sung:
The Envious Nymphs were forc'd to yield
She had the sweetest Face;
No emulous disputes were held,
But for the second place.
Young _Coridon_, whose stubborn Heart
No Beauty e'er could move;
But smil'd at _Cupid's_ Bow and Dart,
And brav'd the God of Love:
Would view this Nymph, and pleas'd at first,
Such silent Charms to see:
With Wonder gaz'd, then sigh'd, and curs'd
His Curiosity.
_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ FISHBURNE.
[Music]
Why am I the only Creature,
Must a ruin'd Love pursue;
Other Passions yield to Nature,
Mine there's nothing can subdue:
Not the Glory of Possessing,
Monarch wishes gave me ease,
More and more the mighty Blessings
Did my raging Pains encrease.
Nor could Jealousie relieve me,
Tho' it ever waited near;
Cloath'd in gawdy Pow'r to grieve me,
Still the Monster would appear:
That, nor Time, nor Absence neither,
Nor Despair removes my Pain;
I endure them all together,
Yet my Torments still remain.
Had alone her matchless beauty,
Set my amorous Heart on Fire,
Age at last would do its Duty,
Fuel ceasing, Flames expire.
But her Mind immortal grows,
Makes my Love immortal too;
Nature ne'er created Faces,
Can the Charms of Souls undoe.
And to make my Loss the greater,
She laments it as her own;
Could she scorn me, I might hate her,
But alas! she shews me none:
Then since Fortune is my Ruin,
In Retirement I'll Complain;
And in rage for my undoing,
Ne'er come in its Power again.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
_Laurinda_, who did love Disdain,
For whom had languish'd many a Swain:
Leading her bleating Flocks to drink,
She 'spy'd upon a River's brink
A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare,
How much he lov'd, but lov'd not her.
At first she laugh'd, but gaz'd a while,
Which soon it lessen'd to a smile;
Thence to Surprize and Wonder came,
Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame:
Then cry'd she out, Ah! now I prove
Thou art a God most mighty _Jove_.
She would have spoke, but shame deny'd,
And bid her first consult her Pride;
But soon she found that aid was gone,
For _Jove_, alass! had left her none:
Ah! now she burns! but 'tis too late,
For in his Eyes she reads her Fate.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
Fair _Caelia_ too fondly contemns those Delights,
Wherewith gentle Nature hath soften'd the Nights;
If she be so kind to present us with Pow'r,
The Fault is our own to neglect the good Hour:
Who gave thee this Beauty, ordain'd thou should'st be,
As kind to thy Slaves, as the Gods were to thee.
Then _Caelia_ no longer reserve the vain Pride,
Of wronging thy self, to see others deny'd;
If Love be a Pleasure, alass! you will find,
We both are not happy, when both are most kind:
But Women, like Priests, do in others reprove,
And call that thing Lust, which in them is but Love.
What they thro' their Madness and Folly create,
We poor silly Slaves still impute to our Fate;
But in such Distempers where Love is the Grief,
'Tis _Caelia_, not Heaven, must give us Relief:
Then away with those Titles of Honour and Cause,
Which first made us sin, by giving us Laws.
_A_ SONG.
_Set by Mr._ WILLIAM TURNER.
[Music]
I Lik'd, but never Lov'd before
I saw that charming Face;
Now every Feature I adore,
And doat on ev'ry Grace:
She ne'er shall know that kind desire,
Which her cold Looks denies,
Unless my Heart that's all on Fire,
Should sparkle through my Eyes:
Then if no gentle Glance return,
A silent Leave to speak;
My Heart which would for ever burn,
Alass! must sigh and break.
_A_ SONG _in_ Valentinian.
[Music]
Where would coy _Amyntas_ run,
From a despairing Lover's Story?
When her Eyes have Conquest won,
Why should her Ear refuse the Glory:
Shall a Slave, whose Racks constrain,
Be forbidden to complain;
Let her scorn me, let her Fly me,
Let her Looks, her Love deny me:
Ne'er shall my Heart yield to despair,
Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care,
Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care:
Much to love, and much to pray,
Is to Heav'n the only way.
_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Pelham Humphreys.
[Music]
A Wife I do hate,
For either she's False, or she's Jealous;
But give me a Mate,
Who nothing will ask us or tell us:
She stands at no Terms,
Nor Chaffers by way of Indenture:
Or Loves for the Farms,
But takes the kind Man at a Venture.
If all prove not right,
Without an Act, Process or Warning,
From Wife for a Night,
You may be divorc'd the next Morning,
Where Parents are Slaves,
Their Brats can't be any other;
Great Wits and great Braves,
Have always a Punk to their Mother.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
Tell me ye _Sicilian_ Swains,
Why this Mourning's o'er your Plains;
Where's your usual Melody?
Why are all your Shepherds mad,
And your Shepherdesses sad?
What can the mighty meaning be?
_Chorus._ _Sylvia_ the Glory of our Plains;
_Sylvia_ the Love of all our Swains;
That blest us with her Smiles:
Where ev'ry Shepherd had a Heart,
And ev'ry Shepherdess a Part;
Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle,
Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
When gay _Philander_ left the Plain,
The Love, the Life of ev'ry Swain;
His Pipe the mournful _Strephon_ took,
By some sad Bank and murm'ring Brook:
Whilst list'ning Flocks forsook their Food,
And Melancholy by him stood;
On the cold Ground himself he laid,
And thus the Mournful Shepherd play'd.
Farewel to all that's bright and gay,
No more glad Night and chearing Day;
No more the Sun will gild our Plain,
'Till the lost Youth return again:
Then every pensive Heart that now,
With Mournful Willow shades his Brow;
Shall crown'd with chearful Garlands sing,
And all shall seem Eternal Spring.
Say, mighty _Pan_, if you did know,
Say all ye rural Gods below;
'Mongst all Youths that grac'd your Plain,
So gay so beautiful a Swain:
In whose sweet Air and charming Voice,
Our list'ning Swains did all Rejoyce;
Him only, O ye Gods! restore
Your Nymphs, and Shepherds ask no more.
_A_ SONG.
_Set by Mr._ THO. KINGSLEY.
[Music]
How Happy's the Mortal whose Heart is his own,
And for his own Quiet's beholden to none,
(_Eccho._ Beholden to none, to none;)
That to Love's Enchantments ne'er lendeth an Ear,
Which a Frown or a Smile can equally bear,
(_Eccho._ Can equally bear, can bear,)
Nor on ev'ry frail Beauty still fixes an Eye,
But from those sly Felons doth prudently fly,
(_Eccho._ Doth prudently, prudently fly, doth fly;)
For the Heart that still wanders is pounded at last,
And 'tis hard to relieve it when once it is fast,
(_Eccho._ When once it is fast, is fast.)
By sporting with Dangers still longer and longer,
The Fetters and Chains of the Captive grows stronger;
He drills on his Evil, then curses his Fate,
And bewails those Misfortunes himself did create:
Like an empty Camelion he lives on the Air,
And all the Day lingers 'twixt Hope and Despair;
Like a Fly in the Candle he sports and he Games,
'Till a Victim in Folly, he dies in the Flames.
If Love, so much talk'd of, a Heresie be,
Of all it enslaves few true Converts we see;
If hectoring and huffing would once do the Feat,
There's few that would fail of a Vict'ry Compleat;
But with Gain to come off, and the Tyrant subdue,
Is an Art that is hitherto practis'd by few;
How easie is Freedom once had to maintain,
But Liberty lost is as hard to regain.
This driv'ling and sniv'ling, and chiming in Parts,
This wining and pining, and breaking of Hearts;
All pensive and silent in Corners to sit,
Are pretty fine Pastimes for those that want Wit:
When this Passion and Fashion doth so far abuse 'em,
It were good the State should for Pendulums use 'em;
For if Reason it seize on, and make it give o'er,
No Labour can save, or reliev't any more.
_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Henry Purcell.
[Music]
A Thousand several ways I try'd,
To hide my Passion from your view;
Conscious that I should be deny'd,
Because I cannot Merit you:
Absence, the last and worst of all,
Did so encrease my wretched Pain,
That I return'd, rather to fall
By the swift Fate, by the swift Fate of your Disdain.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
To the Grove, gentle Love, let us be going,
Where the kind Spring and Wind all Day are Woing;
He with soft sighing Blasts strives to o'er-take her,
She would not tho' she flies, have him forsake her,
But in circling Rings returning,
And in purling Whispers Mourning;
She swells and pants, as if she'd say,
Fain I would, but dare not stay.
_A_ SONG.
_Set by Mr._ FISHBURN.
[Music]
Tell me no more of Flames in Love,
That common dull pretence,
Fools in Romances use to move
Soft Hearts of little Sense:
No, _Strephon_, I'm not such a Slave,
Love's banish'd Power to own;
Since Interest and Convenience have
So long usurp'd his Throne.
No burning Hope or cold Despair,
Dull Groves or purling Streams,
Sighing and talking to the Air
In Love's fantastick Dreams,
Can move my Pity or my Hate,
But Satyrist I'll prove,
And all ridiculous create
That shall pretend to Love.