When I myself whisper'd and told it about What Door they'd go in at, what Door they'd go out, To receive the Salutes of the Rabble and Rout, With a Ring, &c.

At Chris'nings I'll sit with abundance of Joy, And Drink to the Health of the Girl or the Boy, At the same I wish that Fate both would destroy, That I may Ring, &c.

What e'er's my Religion, my Meaning's to Thrive, So the Child that is born, to the Font but survive, No matter how short it's continuance alive, That I may Ring, &c.

Hear then my good Neighbours attend to my cry, And bravely get Children, and decently die, No Sexton now breathing shall use you as I, With a Ring a Ring, Ring a Ring, Dig a Dig, Dig.



The Great BOOBEE.

[Music]

My Friend if you would understand, My Fortunes what they are; I once had Cattle House and Land, But now I am never the near: My Father left a good Estate, As I may tell to thee; I couzened was of all I had, Like a great Boobee.

I went to School with a good intent, And for to learn my Book; And all the Day I went to play, In it I never did look: Full seven Years, or very nigh, As I may tell to thee; I could hardly say my Criss-Cross-Row, Like a great Boobee.

My Father then in all the hast, Did set me to the Plow; And for to lash the Horse about, Indeed I knew not how: My Father took his Whip in Hand, And soundly lashed me; He called me Fool and Country Clown, And a great Boobee.

But I did from my Father run, For I would Plow no more; Because he had so lashed me, And made my sides so sore: But I will go to London Town, Some Fashions for to see; When I came there they call'd me Clown, And a great Boobee.

But as I went along the Street, I carried my Hat in my Hand, And to every one that I did meet, I bravely Buss'd my Hand: Some did laugh, and some did scoff, And some did mock at me; And some did say I was a Woodcock, And a great Boobee.

Then I did walk in hast to Paul's The Steeple for to view; Because I heard some People say, It should be builded new; Then I got up unto the Top, The City for to see; It was so high it made me cry, Like a great Boobee.

From thence I went to Westminster, And for to see the Tombs: Oh, said I, what a House is here, With an infinite sight of Rooms: Sweetly the Abby Bells did Ring, It was a fine sight to see; Methought I was going to Heav'n in a String, Like a great Boobee.

But as I went along the Street, The most part of the Day; Many Gallants I did meet, Methought they were very gay: I blew my Nose and pist my Hose, Some People did me see: They said I was a Beastly Fool: And a great Boobee.

Next Day I thro' Pye-corner past, The Roast-meat on the Stall; Invited me to take a Taste, My Money was but small: The Meat I pickt, the Cook me kickt, As I may tell to thee; He beat me sore and made me roar, Like a great Boobee.

As I thro' Smithfield lately walkt, A gallant Lass I met: Familiarly with me she talk't, Which I cannot forget: She proferr'd me a Pint of Wine, Methought she was wondrous free, To the Tavern then I went with her, Like a great Boobee.

She told me we were near of Kin, And call'd for Wine good store; Before the Reckoning was brought in, My Cousin prov'd a Whore: My Purse she pickt, and went away, My Cousin couzened me, The Vintner kickt me out of Door; Like a great Boobee.

At the Exchange when I came there, I saw most gallant things; I thought the Pictures living were, Of all our English Kings: I doft my Hat and made a Leg, And kneeled on my Knee; The People laugh'd and call'd me Fool, And a great Boobee.

To Paris-Garden then I went, Where there is great resort; My Pleasure was my Punishment, I did not like the Sport: The Garden-Bull with his stout Horns, On high then tossed me; I did bewray my self with fear, Like a great Boobee.

The Bearward went to save me then, The People flock'd about; I told the Bear-Garden-Men, My Guts they were almost out: They said I stunk most grievously, No Man would pity me; They call'd me witless Fool and Ass, And a great Boobee.

Then o'er the water I did pass, As you shall understand; I dropt into the Thames, alass, Before I came to Land: The Waterman did help me out, And thus did say to me; 'Tis not thy fortune to be drown'd, Like a great Boobee.

But I have learned so much Wit, Shall shorten all my Cares; If I can but a Licence get, To play before the Bears: 'Twould be a gallant Place indeed, As I may tell to thee: Then who dares call me Fool or Ass, Or great Boobee.



Set by Mr. Jeremiah Clark,

Sung by Mr. LEVERIDGE.

[Music]

When Maids live to Thirty, yet never repented, When Europe's at Peace and all England contented, When Gamesters won't Swear, and no bribery thrives, Young Wives love old Husbands, young Husbands old Wives; When Landlords love Taxes, and Soldiers love Peace: And Lawyers forget a rich Client to Fleece: When an old Face shall please as well as a new, Wives, Husbands, and Lovers will ever be true.

When Bullies leave huffing and Cowards their Trembling, And Courtiers and Women and Priests their Dissembling, When these shall do nothing against what they teach, Pluralities hate, and we mind what they Preach: When Vintners leave Brewing to draw the Wine pure, And Quacks by their Medicines kill less than they Cure, When an old Face shall please as well as a new, Wives, Husbands and Lovers will ever be true.



Words to a Tune of Mr. BARRET'S, call'd the CATHERINE.

[Music]

In the pleasant Month of May, When the merry, merry Birds began to sing; And the Blossoms fresh and gay; Usher'd in the welcome Spring, When the long cold Winter's gone, And the bright enticing Moon, In the Evening sweetly shon: When the bonny Men and Maids tript it on the Grass; At a jolly Country Fair, When the Nymphs in the best appear; We resolv'd to be free, with a Fiddle and a She, E'ery Shepherd and his Lass.

In the middle of the Sport, When the Fiddle went brisk and the Glass went round, And the Pretty gay Nymphs for Court, With their Merry Feet beat the Ground; Little Cupid arm'd unseen, With a Bow and Dart stole in, With a conquering Air and Mien, And empty'd his Bow thro' the Nymphs and the Swains; E'ery Shepherd and his Mate, Soon felt their pleasing Fate, And longing to try in Enjoyment to die, Love reign'd o'er all the Plains.

Now the sighing Swain gave o'er, And the wearied Nymphs could dance no more, There were other Thoughts that mov'd, E'ery pretty kind Pair that Lov'd: In the Woods the Shepherds lay, And mourn'd the time away, And the Nymphs as well as they, Long'd to taste what it is that their Senses cloys, Till at last by consent of Eyes, E'ery Swain with his pretty Nymph flies, E'ery Buxom She retires with her He, To act Love's solid Joys.



A Scotch SONG. Sung by Mrs. LUCAS at the Old THEATRE.

[Music]

By Moon-light on the Green, Our bonny Lasses Cooing; And dancing there I've seen, Who seem'd alone worth Wooing: Her Skin like driven Snow, Her Hair brown as a Berry: Her Eyes black as a Slow, Her Lips red as a Cherry.

Oh how she tript it, skipt it, Leapt it, stept it, whiskt it, Friskt it, whirld it, twirl'd it, Swimming, springing, starting: So quick, the tune to nick, With a heave and a toss: And a jerk at parting, With a heave, and a toss, and a jerk at parting.

As she sat down I bowed, And veil'd my bonnet to her; Then took her from the Crowd, With Honey words to woo her; Sweet blithest Lass, quoth I, It being bleaky Weather: I prithee let us try, Another Dance together; Oh how she, &c.

Whilst suing thus I stood, Quoth she, pray leave your fooling; Some Dancing heats the Blood, But yours I fear lacks cooling: Still for a Dance I pray'd, And we at last had Seven; And whilst the Fiddle play'd, She thought her self in Heaven, Oh how she, &c.

At last she with a Smile, To Dance again desir'd me; Quoth I, pray stay a while, For now good faith ye've tir'd me: With that she look'd on me, And sigh'd with muckle sorrow; Than gang ye'ar gate, quoth she, But Dance again to morrow.



The QUAKER'S SONG. Sung by Mrs. Willis at the New Play-House.

[Music]

Amongst the pure ones all, Which Conscience doth profess; And yet that sort of Conscience, Doth practice nothing less: I mean the Sect of those Elect, That loath to live by Merit; That leads their Lives with other Mens Wives, According unto the Spirit.

One met with a Holy Sister of ours, A Saint who dearly lov'd him: And fain he would have kiss'd her, Because the Spirit mov'd him: But she deny'd, and he reply'd, You're damn'd unless you do it; Therefore consent, do not repent, For the Spirit doth move me to it.

She not willing to offend, poor Soul, Yielded unto his Motion; And what these two did intend, Was out of pure Devotion: To lye with a Friend and a Brother, She thought she shou'd die no Sinner, But e'er five Months were past, The Spirit was quick within her.

But what will the Wicked say, When they shall here of this Rumour; They'd laugh at us every Day, And Scoff us in every Corner: Let 'em do so still if that they will, We mean not to follow their Fashion, They're none of our Sect, nor of our Elect, Nor none of our Congregation.

But when the time was come, That she was to be laid; It was no very great Crime, Committed by her they said: 'Cause they did know, and she did show, 'Twas done by a Friend and a Brother, But a very great Sin they said it had been, If it had been done by another.



A SONG.

[Music]

As Oyster Nan stood by her Tub, To shew her vicious Inclination; She gave her noblest Parts a Scrub, And sigh'd for want of Copulation: A Vintner of no little Fame, Who excellent Red and White can sell ye, Beheld the little dirty Dame, As she stood scratching of her Belly.

Come in, says he, you silly Slut, 'Tis now a rare convenient Minute; I'll lay the Itching of your Scut, Except some greedy Devil be in it: With that the Flat-capt Fusby smil'd, And would have blush'd, but that she cou'd not; Alass! says she, we're soon beguil'd, By Men to do those things we shou'd not.

From Door they went behind the Bar, As it's by common Fame reported; And there upon a Turkey Chair, Unseen the loving Couple sported: But being call'd by Company, As he was taking pains to please her; I'm coming, coming Sir, says he, My Dear, and so am I, says she, Sir.

Her Mole-hill Belly swell'd about, Into a Mountain quickly after; And when the pretty Mouse crept out, The Creature caus'd a mighty Laughter: And now she has learnt the pleasing Game, Altho' much Pain and Shame it cost her; She daily ventures at the same, And shuts and opens like an Oyster.



The IRISH Jigg: Or, the Night Ramble.

[Music]

One Night in my Ramble I chanc'd to see, A thing like a Spirit, it frightened me; I cock'd up my Hat and resolv'd to look big, And streight fell a Tuning the Irish Jigg.

The Devil drew nearer and nearer in short, I found it was one of the Petticoat sort; My Fears being over, I car'd not a Fig, But still I kept tuning the Irish Jigg.

And then I went to her, resolving to try her; I put her agog of a longing desire; I told her I'd give her a Whip for her Gig, And a Scourge to the Tune of the Irish Jigg.

Then nothing but Dancing our Fancy could please, We lay on the Grass and Danc'd at our ease; I down'd with my Breeches and off with my Whigg, And we fell a Dancing the Irish Jigg.

I thank you, kind Sir, for your kindness, said she, The Scholar's as Wise as the Master can be; For if you should chance to get me with Kid, I'll lay the poor Brat to the Irish Jigg.

The Dance being ended as you may see, We rose by Consent and we both went away; I put on my Cloaths and left her to grow big, And so I went Roaring the Irish Jigg.



A SONG.

[Music]

It was a happy Golden Day, When fair Althea Kind and Gay, Put all but Love and me away; I arm'd with soft Words did Address, Sweet and kind Kisses far express, A greater Joy and Happiness.

Nature the best Instructeress cry'd, Her Ivory Pillows to divide, That Love might Sail with Wind and Tide; She rais'd the Mast and sail'd by it, That Day two Tides together met, Drove him on Shore soon dropping wet.



A SONG.

[Music]

Ah! Caelia how can you be Cruel and Fair? Since removing, The Charms that are loving, 'Twould make a poor Lover Despair; 'Tis true, I have lov'd you these seven long Years & more, Too long for a Man that ne'er was in Love before: And if longer you my Caresses deny, I then am resolv'd to give over my Flames and die.

Love fires the Heart of him that is Brave, Charms the Spirit Of him that is merit, And makes the poor Lover a Slave; Dull sordid Souls that never knew how to Love, Where Nature is plung'd, 'tis a shame to the best above: And if any longer you my Caresses deny, I then am resolv'd to give over my Flames and die.



A SONG.

[Music]

There was a Knight and he was Young, A riding along the way, Sir; And there he met a Lady fair, Among the Cocks of Hay, Sir: Quoth he, shall you and I Lady, Among the Grass lye down a; And I will have a special Care, Of rumpling of your Gown a.

If you will go along with me, Unto my Father's Hall, Sir; You shall enjoy my Maiden-head, And my Estate and all, Sir: So he mounted her on a milk-white Steed, Himself upon another; And then they rid upon the Road, Like Sister and like Brother.

And when she came to her Father's House, Which was moated round about, Sir; She stepped streight within the Gate, And shut this Young Knight out, Sir, Here is a Purse of Gold, she said, Take it for your Pains, Sir; And I will send my Father's Man, To go home with you again, Sir.

And if you meet a Lady fair, As you go thro' the next Town, Sir; You must not fear the Dew of the Grass, Nor the rumpling of her Gown, Sir: And if you meet a Lady Gay, As you go by the Hill, Sir; If you will not when you may, You shall not when you will, Sir.

There is a Dew upon the Grass, Will spoil your Damask Gown a; Which has cost your Father dear, Many Shilling and a Crown a: There is a Wind blows from the West, Soon will dry the Ground a; And I will have a special Care, Of the rumpling of my Gown a.



A SONG.

[Music]

Slaves to London I'll deceive you, For the Country now I leave you: Who can bear, and not be Mad, Wine so dear, and yet so bad: Such a Noise and Air so smoaky, That to stun, this to choak ye; Men so selfish, false and rude, Nymphs so young and yet so lew'd.

Quiet harmless Country Pleasure, Shall at home engross my Leisure; Farewel London, I'll repair, To my Native Country Air: I leave all thy Pleasures behind me, But at home my Wife will find me; Oh the Gods! 'tis ten times worse, London is a milder Curse.



The Duke of ORMOND'S March.

Set by Mr. CHURCH.

[Music]

Ye brave Boys and Tars, That design for the Wars, Remember the Action at Vigo; And where ORMOND Commands, Let us all joyn our Hands, And where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Let Conquest and Fame, The Honour proclaim, Great ORMOND has gotten at Vigo; Let the Trumpets now sound, And the Ecchoes around, Where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Let the Glories be Sung, Which the ORMONDS have won, Long before this great Action at Vigo; They're so Loyal and Just, And so true to their Trust, That where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Old Records of Fame, Of the ORMONDS great Name, Their Actions, like these were of Vigo; And since this Prince exceeds, In his Fore-Father's Deeds, Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

'Tis the Praise of our Crown, That such Men of Renown, Shou'd lead on the Van, as at Vigo; Where such Lives and Estates Are expos'd for our sakes, Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

'Twas the whole Nation's Voice, And we all did rejoyce, When we heard he Commanded for Vigo; To ANNA so True, All her Foes to pursue, Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

'Tis the Voice of the Town, And our Zeal for the Crown, To serve ORMOND to France, Spain, or Vigo; So Noble and brave, Both to Conquer and save, Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

To the Soldiers so kind, And so humbly inclin'd, To wave his Applause gain'd at Vigo; Yet so kind and so true, He gave all Men their due, Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

We justly do own, All the Honour that's won, In Flanders, as well as at Vigo; But our Subject and Theme, Is of ORMOND's great Name, And where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Then take off the Bowl, To that Generous Soul, That Commanded so bravely at Vigo; And may ANNA approve, Of our Duty and Love, And where he goes, may you go, and I go.



A Cure for Melancholy.

[Music]

Are you grown so Melancholy, That you think on nought but Folly; Are you sad, Are you Mad, Are you worse; Do you think, Want of Chink Is a Curse: Do you wish for to have, Longer Life, or a Grave, Thus would I Cure ye.

First I would have a Bag of Gold, That should ten Thousand Pieces hold, And all that, In thy Hat, Would I pour; For to spend, On thy Friend, Or thy Whore: For to cast away at Dice, Or to shift you of your Lice, Thus would I Cure ye.

Next I would have a soft Bed made, Wherein a Virgin should be laid; That would Play, Any way You'll devise; That would stick Like a Tick, To your Thighs, That would bill like a Dove, Lye beneath or above, Thus would I Cure ye.

Next that same Bowl, where Jove Divine, Drank Nectar in, I'd fill with Wine; That whereas, You should pause, You should quaff; Like a Greek, Till your Cheek, To Ceres and to Venus, To Bacchus and Silenus, Thus would I Cure ye.

Last of all there should appear, Seven Eunuchs sphere-like Singing here, In the Praise, Of those Ways, Of delights; Venus can, Use with Man, In the Night; When he strives to adorn, Vulcan's Head with a HORN, Thus would I Cure ye.

But if not Gold, nor Woman can, Nor Wine, nor Songs, make merry then; Let the Batt, Be thy Mate, And the Owl; Let a Pain, In thy Brain, Make thee Howl; Let the Pox be thy Friend, And the Plague work thy end, Thus I would Cure you.



To his fairest VALENTINE Mrs. A.L.

[Music]

Come pretty Birds present your Lays, And learn to chaunt a Goddess Praise; Ye Wood-Nymphs let your Voices be, Employ'd to serve her Deity: And warble forth, ye Virgins Nine, Some Musick to my Valentine.

Her Bosom is Loves Paradise, There is no Heav'n but in her Eyes; She's chaster than the Turtle-Dove, And fairer than the Queen of Love; Yea, all Perfections do combine, To beautifie my Valentine.

She's Nature's choicest Cabinet, Where Honour, Beauty, Worth and Wit, Are all united in her Breast, The Graces claim an Interest: All Vertues that are most Divine, Shine clearest in my Valentine.



A BALLAD,

Or, COLLIN'S Adventure.

[Music]

As Collin went from his Sheep to unfold, In a Morning of April, as grey as 'twas cold, In a Thicket he heard a Voice it self spread; Which was, O, O, I am almost dead.

He peep'd in the Bushes, and spy'd where there lay His Mistress, whose Countenance made April May; But in her looks some sadness was read, Crying O, O, I am almost dead.

He rush'd in to her, and cry'd what's the matter, Ah! Collin, quoth she, why will you come at her, Who by the false Swain, hath often been misled, For which O, O, I am almost dead.

He turn'd her Milk-pail, and there down he sat, His Hands stroak'd his Beard, on his Knee lay his Coat, But, O, still Mopsa cry'd, before ought was said, Collin, O, O, I am almost dead.

No more, quoth stout Collin! I ever was true, Thou gav'st me a Handkerchief all hemm'd with Blue: A Pin-box I gave thee, and a Girdle so Red, Yet still she cry'd, O, O, I am almost dead.

Delaying, quoth she, hath made me thus Ill, For I never fear'd Sarah that dwelt at the Mill, Since in the Ev'ning late her Hogs thou hast fed, For which, O, O, I am almost dead.

Collin then chuck'd her under the Chin, Cheer up for to love thee I never will lin, Says she, I'll believe it when the Parson has read, 'Till then, O, O, I am almost dead.

Uds boars, quoth Collin, I'll new my shon, And e'er the Week pass, by the Mass it shall be done: You might have done this before, then she said, But now, O, O, I am almost dead.

He gave her a twitch that quite turn'd her round, And said, I'm the truest that e'er trod on Ground, Come settle thy Milk-Pail fast on thy Head, No more O, O, I am almost dead.

Why then I perceive thoul't not leave me in the Lurch, I'll don my best Cloths and streight to the Church: Jog on, merry Collin, jog on before, For I Faith, I Faith, I'll dye no more.



The Town-Rakes, A SONG: Set by Mr. Daniel Purcell: Sung by Mr. EDWARDS.

[Music]

What Life can compare with the jolly Town Rakes, When in his full swing of all Pleasure he takes? At Noon he gets up for a wet and to Dine, And Wings the swift Hours with Mirth, Musick, and Wine, Then jogs to the Play-house and chats with the Masques, And thence to the Rose where he takes his three Flasks, There great as a Caesar he revels when drunk, And scours all he meets as he reels, as he reels to his Punk, And finds the dear Girl in his Arms when he wakes, What Life can compare to the jolly Town-Rakes, the Jolly Town-Rakes.

He like the Great Turk has his favourite She, But the Town's his Seraglio, and still he lives free; Sometimes she's a Lady, but as he must range, Black Betty, or Oyster Moll serve for a Change: As he varies his Sports his whole Life is a Feast, He thinks him that is soberest is most like a Beast: All Houses of Pleasure, breaks Windows and Doors, Kicks Bullies and Cullies, then lies with their Whores: Rare work for the Surgeon and Midwife he makes, What Life can Compare with the jolly Town-Rakes.

Thus in Covent-Garden he makes his Campaigns, And no Coffee-House haunts but to settle his Brains; He laughs at dry Mortals, and never does think, Unless 'tis to get the best Wenches and Drink: He dwells in a Tavern, and lives ev'ry where, And improving his Hour, lives an age in a Year: For as Life is uncertain, he loves to make haste, And thus he lives longest because he lives fast: Then leaps in the Dark, and his Exit he makes, What Death can compare with the jolly Town-Rakes.



A SONG: Set by Mr. CLARKE.

[Music]

Young Coridon and Phillis Sate in a lovely Grove; Contriving Crowns of Lillies, Repeating Tales of Love: And something else, but what I dare not, &c.

But as they were a Playing, She oagled so the Swain; It say'd her plainly saying, Let's kiss to ease our Pain: And something else, &c.

A thousand times he kiss'd her, Laying her on the Green; But as he farther press'd her, Her pretty Leg was seen: And something else, &c.

So many Beauties removing, His Ardour still increas'd; And greater Joys pursuing, He wander'd o'er her Breast: And something else, &c.

A last Effort she trying, His Passion to withstand; Cry'd, but it was faintly crying, Pray take away your Hand: And something else, &c.

Young Coridon grown bolder, The Minute would improve; This is the Time he told her, To shew you how I love; And something else, &c.

The Nymph seem'd almost dying, Dissolv'd in amorous Heat; She kiss'd, and told him sighing, My Dear your Love is great: And something else, &c.

But Phillis did recover Much sooner than the Swain; She blushing ask'd her Lover, Shall we not Kiss again: And something else, &c.

Thus Love his Revels keeping, 'Till Nature at a stand; From talk they fell to Sleeping, Holding each others Hand; And something else, &c.



The Amorous BARBER'S Passion of Love for his Dear BRIDGET.

[Music]

With my Strings of small Wire lo I come, And a Cittern made of Wood; And a Song altho' you are Deaf and Dumb, May be heard and understood. Dumb, dumb——

Oh! take Pity on me, my Dear, Me thy Slave, and me thy Vassal, And be not Cruel, as it were, Like to some strong and well built old Castle. Dumb, dumb——

Lest as thou passest along the Street, Braver every Day and braver; Every one that does thee meet, Will say there goes a Woman-shaver. Dumb, dumb——

And again will think fit, And to say they will determine; There goes she that with Tongue killed Clip-Chops, As a Man with his Thumbs kill Vermine. Dumb, dumb——

For if thou dost then, farewel Pelf, Farewel Bridget, for I vow I'll: Either in my Bason hang my self, Or drown me in my Towel, Dumb, dumb——



A BALLAD, made by a Gentleman in Ireland, who could not have Access to a Lady whom he went to visit, because the Maid the Night before had over-laid her pretty Bitch. To the Tune of, O Hone, O Hone.

[Music]

Oh! let no Eyes be dry, Oh Hone, Oh Hone, But let's lament and cry, Oh Hone, O Hone, We're quite undone almost, For Daphne on this Coast, Has yielded up the Ghost, Oh Hone, O Hone.

Daphne my dearest Bitch, Oh Hone, O Hone, Who did all Dogs bewitch, Oh Hone, &c. Was by a careless Maid, Pox take her for a Jade, In the Night over-laid, Oh Hone, &c.

Oh may she never more Oh Hone, &c. Sleep quietly, but snore, Oh Hone, &c. May never Irish Lad, Sue for her Maiden-head, Until it stinks I Gad, Oh Hone, &c.

Oh may she never keep Oh Hone, Oh Hone; Her Water in her Sleep, Oh Hone, Oh Hone: May never Pence nor Pounds, Come more within the Bounds, Of her Pocket Ad-sounds, Oh Hone, Oh Hone.



DAMON forsaken. Set by Mr. WROTH.

[Music]

When that young Damon bless'd my Heart, And in soft Words did move; How did I hug the pleasing Dart, And thank'd the God of Love: Cupid, said I, my best lov'd Lamb, That in my Bosom lives: To thee, for kindling this dear Flame, To thee, kind God, I'll give.

But prying Friends o'er-heard my Vow, And murmur'd in my Ear; Damon hath neither Flocks nor Plough, Girl what thou dost beware: They us'd so long their cursed Art, And damn'd deluding sham; That I agreed with them to part, Nor offer'd up my Lamb.

Cupid ask'd for his Offering, 'Cause I refus'd to pay; He took my Damon on his Wing, And carry'd him quite away: Pitch'd him before Olinda's Charms, Those Wonders of the Plain; Commanding her into her Arms, To take the dearest Swain.

The envy'd Nymph, soon, soon obey'd, And bore away the Prize; 'Tis well she did, for had she stay'd, I'd snatch'd him from her Eyes: My Lamb was with gay Garlands dress'd, The Pile prepar'd to burn; Hoping that if the God appeas'd, My Damon might return.

But oh! in vain he's gone, he's gone, Phillis he can't be thine; I by Obedience am undone, Was ever Fate like mine: Olinda do, try all thy Charms, Yet I will have a part; For whilst you have him in your Arms, I'll have him in my Heart.



The Apparition to the Jilted Lover. Set by Mr. WROTH.

[Music]

Think wretched Mortal, think no more, How to prolong thy Breath: For thee there are no Joys in store, But in a welcome Death: Then seek to lay thee under Ground, The Grave cures all Despair; And healeth every bitter Wound, Giv'n by th' ungrateful Fair.

How cou'dst thou Faith in Woman think, Women are Syrens all; And when Men in Loves Ocean sink, Take Pride to see 'em fall: Women were never real yet, But always truth despise: Constant to nothing but Deceit, False Oaths and flattering Lies.

Ah! Coridon bid Life adieu, The Gods will thee prefer; Their Gates are open'd wide for you, But bolted against her: Do thou be true, you vow'd to Love, Phillis or Death you'll have; Now since the Nymph doth perjured prove, Be just unto the Grave.



A SONG.

[Music]

Heaven first created Woman to be Kind, Both to be belov'd, and for to Love; If you contradict what Heav'n has design'd, You'll be contemn'd by all the Pow'rs above: Then no more dispute me, for I am rashly bent, To subject your Beauty To kind Nature's Duty, Let me than salute you by Consent.

Arguments and fair Intreats did I use, But with her Consent could not prevail; She the Blessing modestly would still refuse, Seeming for to slight my amorous Tale: Sometimes she would cry Sir, prithee Dear be good, Oh Sir, pray Sir, why Sir? Pray now, nay now, fye Sir, I would sooner die Sir, than be rude.

I began to treat her then another way, Modestly I melted with a Kiss; She then blushing look'd like the rising Day, Fitting for me to attempt the Bliss: I gave her a fall Sir, she began to tear, Crying she would call Sir, As loud as she could baul Sir, But is prov'd as false, Sir, as she's Fair.



RALPH'S going to the Wars.

[Music]

To the Wars I must alass, Though I do not like the Game, For I hold him to be an Ass, That will lose his Life for Fame: 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.

When the Bow, Bill, Zword and Dagger, 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.

Love was a Monarch once, 'tis true, And God-like rul'd alone, And tho' his Subjects were but few, Their Hearts were all his own; But since the Slaves revolted are, And turn'd into a State, Their Int'rest is their only Care, And Love grows out of Date.



A SONG.

Set by Mr. FISHBURN.

[Music]

Wealth breeds Care, Love, Hope and Fear; What does Love our Business hear? While Bacchus merry does appear, Fight on and fear no sinking, Charge it briskly to the Brim, 'Till the flying Top-sails swim, We owe the great Discovery to him Of this new World of Drinking.

Grave Cabals that States refine, Mingle their Debates with Wine; Ceres and the God o'th' Wine; Makes every great Commander. Let sober Sots Small-beer subdue, The Wise and valiant Wine does woe; The Stagyrite had the honour to Be drunk with Alexander.

Stand to your Arms, and now Advance A Health to the English King of France; On to the next a bon Speranze, By Bacchus and Apollo. Thus in State I lead the Van, Fall in your Place by your right-hand Man, Beat Drum! now March! Dub a dub, ran dan, He's a Whig that will not follow.



A SONG. Set by Mr. Fishburn.

[Music]

Tho' Fortune and Love may be Deities still, To those they Oblige by their Pow'r; For my Part, they ever have us'd me so ill, They cannot expect I'll adore: Hereafter a Temple to Friendship I'll raise, And dedicate there all the rest of my Days, To the Goddess accepted my Vows, To the Goddess accepted my Vows.

Thou perfectest Image of all things Divine, Bright Center of endless Desires, May the Glory be yours, and the Services mine, When I light at your Altars the Fires. I offer a Heart has Devotion so pure, It would for your Service all Torments endure, Might you but have all things you wish, Might you, &c.

But yet the Goddess of Fools to despise, I find I'm too much in her Power; She makes me go where 'tis in vain to be wise, In absence of her I adore: If Love then undoes me before I get back, I still with resignment receive the Attack, Or languish away in Despair, Or languish, &c.



A SONG.

Set by Mr. Henry Purcell.

[Music]

He himself courts his own Ruin, That with too great Passion sues 'em: When Men Whine too much in Wooing, Women with like Coquets use 'em: Some by this way of addressing Have the Sex so far transported, That they'll fool away the Blessing For the Pride of being Courted.

Jilt and smile when we adore 'em, While some Blockhead buys the Favour; Presents have more Power o'er 'em Than all our soft Love and Labour, Thus, like Zealots, with screw'd Faces, We our fooling make the greater, While we cant long winded Graces, Others they fall to the Creature.



A SONG. Set by Mr. DAMASENE.

[Music]

Cease lovely Strephon, cease to charm; Useless, alas! is all this Art; It's needless you should strongly arm, To take a too, too willing Heart: I hid my weakness all I could, And chid my pratling tell-tale Eyes, For fear the easie Conquest should Take from the value of the Prize.

But oh! th' unruly Passion grew So fast, it could not be conceal'd, And soon, alas! I found to you I must without Conditions yield, Tho' you have thus surpriz'd my Heart, Yet use it kindly, for you know, It's not a gallant Victor's part To insult o'er a vanquish'd Foe.



A SONG.

Set by Mr. DAMASENE.

[Music]

You happy Youths, whose Hearts are free From Love's Imperial Chain, Henceforth be warn'd and taught by me, And taught by me to avoid inchanting Pain, Fatal the Wolves to trembling Flocks, Sharp Winds to Blossoms prove: To careless Seamen, hidden Rocks; To human quiet Love.

Fly the Fair-Sex, if Bliss you prize, The Snake's beneath the Flow'r: Whoever gaz'd on Beauties Eyes, That tasted Quiet more? The Kind with restless Jealousie, The Cruel fill with Care; With baser Falshood those betray, These kill us with Despair.



A SONG. Set by Dr. STAGGINS.

[Music]

When first Amyntas charm'd my Heart, The heedless Sheep began to stray; The Wolves soon stole the greatest part, And all will now be made a Prey: Ah! let not Love your Thoughts possess, 'Tis fatal to a Shepherdess; The dangerous Passion you must shun, Or else like me, be quite undone.



A SONG.

Set by Mr. RICHARD CROONE.

[Music]

How happy and free is the resolute Swain, That denies to submit to the Yoak of the Fair; Free from Excesses of Pleasure and Pain, Neither dazl'd with Hope, nor deprest with Despair. He's safe from Disturbance, and calmly enjoys All the Pleasures of Love, without Clamour and Noise.

Poor Shepherds in vain their Affections reveal, To a Nymph that is peevish, proud sullen and coy; Vainly do Virgins their Passions conceal, For they boil in their Grief, 'till themselves they destroy, And thus the poor Darling lies under a Curse: To be check'd in the Womb, or o'erlaid by the Nurse.



A SONG.

Sung by Mrs. Cross in the Mock-Astrologer, Set by Mr. RAMONDON.

[Music]

Why so pale and wan fond Lover? Prithee, prithee, Prithee why so pale: Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking Ill, looking ill prevail? Why so dull and mute young Sinner? Prithee, prithee why so mute; Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing, nothing do't? Quit, quit for shame, this will not move, This cannot, cannot, cannot, cannot take her; If of her self she will not love, Nothing can, nothing can make her, The Devil, the Devil, the Devil, the Devil take her.



A SONG occasioned by a Lady's wearing a Patch upon a becoming place on her Face. Set by Mr. John Weldon.

[Music]

That little Patch upon your Face Wou'd seem a Foil on one less Fair, Wou'd seem a Foil, wou'd seem a Foil, Wou'd seem a Foil on one less Fair: On you it hides a charming Grace, And you in Pity, you in Pity, You in Pity plac'd it there; On you it hides a Charming Grace, And you in Pity, you in Pity, In Pity plac'd it there. And you in Pity, Pity, And you in Pity plac'd it there.



A SONG.

Set and Sung by Mr. LEVERIDGE at the THEATER.

[Music]

Iris beware when Strephon pursues you, 'Tis but to boast a Conquest won: All his Designs are aim'd to undo you, Break off the Love he has begun: When he's Addressing, and prays for the Blessing, Which none but his Iris can give alone; O then beware, 'tis all to undo you, 'Tis but to boast a Conquest won: She that's believing, while he is deceiving, Like many already, will be undone; Iris beware when Strephon pursues you, 'Tis but to boast a Conquest won.



A SONG.

Set by Mr. RAMONDON, Sung at the Theatre.

[Music]

How charming Phillis is, how Fair, How charming Phillis is, how Fair, O that she were as willing, To ease my wounded Heart of Care, And make her Eyes less killing; To ease my wounded Heart of Care, And make her Eyes less killing; To ease my wounded Heart of Care, And make her Eyes less killing; To ease my wounded Heart of Care, And make her Eyes less killing.

I Sigh, I Sigh, I Languish now, And Love will not let me rest; I drive about the Park and Bow, Where-e'er I meet my Dearest.



A SONG.

Set by Mr. ANTHONY YOUNG.

[Music]

Cease whining Damon to Complain, Of thy Unhappy Fate; That Sylvia should thy Love disdain, Which lasting was and great.

For Love so constant flames so bright, More unsuccessful prove: Than cold neglect and sudden slight, To gain the Nymph you love.

Then only you'll obtain the Prize, When you her Coyness use; If you pursue the Fair, she flies, But if you fly, pursues.

Had Phoebus not pursu'd so fast The seeming cruel she; The God a Virgin had embrac'd, And not a lifeless Tree.



A SONG in the OPERA call'd the BRITTISH ENCHANTERS. Set by Mr. J. ECCLES.

[Music]

Plague us not with idle Stories, Whining Loves, whining Loves, whining Loves, And Senceless Glories. What are Lovers? what are Kings? What, at best, but slavish Things? What are Lovers? what are Kings? What, at best, but slavish Things? What, at best, but slavish Things?

Free I liv'd as Nature made me, Love nor Beauty durst invade me, No rebellious Slaves betray'd me, Free I liv'd as Nature made me, Each by turns as Sence inspired me, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus fir'd me, I alone have learnt true Pleasure, Freedom, Freedom, Freedom is the only, only Treasure.



JUNO in the Prize.

Set by Mr. JOHN WELDON.

[Music]

Let Ambition fire thy Mind, Thou wert born o'er Men to Reign; Not to follow Flocks design'd, Scorn thy Crook, and leave the Plain: Not to follow Flocks design'd, Scorn thy Crook, and leave the Plain.

Crowns I'll throw beneath thy Feet, Thou on Necks of Kings shalt tread, Joys in Circles, Joys shall meet, Which way e're thy fancy leads.



The Beau's Character in the Comedy call'd Hampstead-Heath. Set and Sung by Mr. Ramondon.

[Music]

A Whig that's full, An empty Scull, A Box of Burgamot; A Hat ne'er made To fit his Head No more than that to Plot. A Hand that's White, A Ring that's right, A Sword, Knot, Patch and Feather; A Gracious Smile, And Grounds and Oyl, Do very well together.

A smatch of French, And none of Sence, All Conquering Airs and Graces; A Tune that Thrills, A Lear that Kills, Stoln Flights and borrow'd Phrases. A Chariot Gilt, To wait on Jilt, An awkward Pace and Carriage; A Foreign Tower, Domestick Whore, And Mercenary Marriage.

A Limber Ham, G—— D—— ye M'am, A Smock-Face, tho' a Tann'd one; A Peaceful Sword, Not one wise Word, But State and Prate at Random. Duns, Bastards, Claps, And Am'rous Scraps, Of Caelia and Amadis; Toss up a Beau, That Grand Ragou, That Hodge-Podge for the Ladies.



A SONG in the Innocent Mistress. Set by Mr. John Eccles, Sung by Mrs. Hodgson.

[Music]

When I languish'd and wish'd you wou'd something bestow, You bad me to give it a Name; But by Heav'n I know it as little as you, Tho' my Ignorance passes for Shame: You take for Devotion each passionate Glance, And think the dull Fool is sincere; But never believe that I spake in Romance, On purpose to tickle, on purpose, on purpose, On purpose to tickle your Ear: To please me than more, think still I am true, And hug each Apocryphal Text; Tho' I practice a Thousand false Doctrines on you, I shall still have enough, I shall still have enough, Shall still have enough for the next.



VENUS to PARIS in the Prize Musick. Set by Mr. JOHN WELDON.

[Music]

Hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle Swain, Hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle Swain, Let not Venus, let not Venus, let not Venus sue in vain; Venus rules, Venus rules, Venus rules the Gods above, Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, and she rules Love? Venus rules the Gods above, Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, and she rules Love. Love rules them, and she rules Love.



A SONG.

The Words by Mr. WARD, Set by Mr. HARRIS.

[Music]

Belinda! why do you distrust, So faithful and so kind a Heart: Which cannot prove to you unjust, But must it self endure the smart: No, no, no, no the wandring Stars, Shall sooner cease their Motion; And Nature reconcile the Jars, 'Twixt Boreas and the Ocean: The fixed Poles shall seem to move, And ramble from their Places; E'er I'll from fair Belinda rove, Or slight her charming Graces.



A SONG.

Set by Mr. William Turner.

[Music]

Long was the Day e're Alexis my Lover, To finish my Hopes would his Passion reveal; He could not speak, nor I could not discover, What my poor aking Heart was so loath to conceal: Till the Strength of his Passion his Fear had remov'd, Then we mutually talk'd, and we mutually lov'd.

Groves for Umbrella's did kindly o'er-shade us, From Phoebus hot rages, who like envy in strove; Had not kind Fate this Provision made us, All the Nymphs of the Air would have envy'd our Love: But we stand below Envy that ill-natur'd Fate, And above cruel Scorn is happy Estate.



A SONG.

Set to Musick by Mr. John Eccles.

[Music]

As Cupid roguishly one Day, Had all alone stole out to play; The Muses caught the little, little, little Knave, And captive Love to Beauty gave: The Muses caught the little, little, little Knave, And captive Love to Beauty gave: The laughing Dame soon miss'd her Son, And here and there, and here and there, And here and there distracted run; Distracted run, and here and there, And here and there, and here and there distracted run: And still his Liberty to gain, his Liberty to gain, Offers his Ransom, But in vain, in vain, in vain; The willing, willing Prisoner still hugs his Chain, And Vows he'll ne'er be free, And Vows he'll ne'er be free, No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, No, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again, No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, No, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again.



Old SOLDIERS.

[Music]

Of old Soldiers, the Song you would hear, And we old Fidlers have forgot who they were, But all we remember shall come to your Ear, That we are old Soldiers of the Queens, And the Queens old Soldiers.

With the Old Drake, that was the next Man To Old Franciscus, who first it began, To sail through the Streights of Magellan, Like an old Soldier, &c.

That put the proud Spanish Armado to wrack, And Travell'd all o'er the old World, and came back, In his old Ship, laden with Gold and old Sack, Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Cavendish, that seconded him, And taught his old Sails the same Passage to swim, And did them therefore with Cloth of Gold Trim, Like an old Soldier, &c.

Like an Old Rawleigh, that twice and again, Sailed over most part of the Seas, and then Travell'd all o'er the World with his Pen, Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old John Norris, the General, That at old Gaunt, made his Fame Immortal, In spight of his Foes, with no loss at all, Like an old Soldier, &c.

Like Old Brest Fort, an invincible thing, When the old Queen sent him to help the French King, Took from the proud Fox, to the World's wond'ring, Like an old Soldier, &c.

Where an old stout Fryer, as goes the Story, Came to push of Pike with him in Vain-glory, But he was almost sent to his own Purgatory, By this old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Ned Norris, that kept Ostend, A terror to Foe, and a Refuge to Friend, And left it Impregnable to his last End, Like an old Soldier, &c.

That in the old unfortunate Voyage of all, March'd o'er the old Bridge, and knock'd at the Wall, Of Lisbon, the Mistress of Portugal, Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Tim Norris, by the old Queen sent, Of Munster in Ireland, Lord President, Where his Days and his Blood in her service he spent, Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Harry Norris, in Battle wounded, In his Knee, whose Leg was cut off, and he said, You have spoil'd my Dancing, and dy'd in his Bed, Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Will Norris, the oldest of all, Who went voluntary, without any Call, To th' old Irish Wars, to's Fame Immortal, Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Dick Wenman, the first in his Prime, That over the Walls of old Cales did Clime, And there was Knighted, and liv'd all his Time, Like an old Soldier, &c.

With Old Nando Wenman, when Brest was o'er thrown, Into the Air, into the Seas, with Gunpowder blown, Yet bravely recovering, long after was known, For an Old Soldier, &c.

When an Old Tom Wenman, whose bravest delight, Was in a good Cause for his Country to Fight, And dy'd in Ireland, a good old Knight, And an old Soldier, &c.

With a Young Ned Wenman, so valiant and bold, In the Wars of Bohemia, as with the Old, Deserves for his Valour to be Enroll'd, An old Soldier, &c.

And thus of Old Soldiers, ye hear the Fame, But ne'er so many of one House and Name, And all of old John Lord Viscount of Thame, An old Soldier of the Queens, And the Queens old Soldier.



On the Tombs in Westminster Abby.

You must suppose it to be Easter Holy-Days: At what time Sisly and Dol, Kate and Peggy, Moll and Nan, are marching to Westminster, with a Leash of Prentices before 'em; who go rowing themselves along with their right Arms to make more hast, and now and then with a greasie Muckender wipe away the dripping that bastes their Foreheads. At the Door they meet a crowd of Wapping Sea-men, Southwark Broom-men, the Inhabitants of the Bank-Side, with a Butcher or two prickt in among them. There a while they stand gaping for the Master of the Show, staring upon the Suburbs of their dearest delight, just as they stand gaping upon the painted Cloth before they go into the Puppet Play. By and by they hear the Bunch of Keys, which rejoyces their Hearts like the sound of the Pancake-Bell. For now the Man of Comfort peeps over the Spikes, and beholding such a learned Auditory, opens the Gate of Paradise, and by that time they are half got into the first Chapel, (for time is very precious) he lifts up his Voice among the Tombs, and begins his Lurrey in manner and form following.

To the foregoing Tune; In Imitation of the Old Soldiers.

Here lies William de Valence, A right good Earl of Pembroke, And this is his Monument which you see, I'll swear upon a Book.

He was high Marshal of England, When Henry the Third did Reign; But this you take upon my Word, That he'll ne'er be so again.

Here the Lord Edward Talbot lies, The Town of Shrewsbury's Earl; Together with his Countess fair, That was a most delicate Girl.

The next to him there lyeth one, Sir Richard Peckshall hight; Of whom we only this do say, He was a Hampshire Knight.

But now to tell you more of him, There lies beneath this Stone: Two Wives of his, and Daughters four, To all of Us unknown.

Sir Bernard Brockhurst there doth lie, Lord Chamberlain to Queen Ann; Queen Ann was Richard the Second's Queen, And was King of England.

Sir Francis Hollis, the Lady Frances, The same was Suffolk's Dutchess; Two Children of Edward the Third, Lie here in Death's cold Clutches.

This is the Third King Edward's Brother, Of whom our Records tell Nothing of Note, nor say they whether, He be in Heaven or Hell.

This same was John of Eldeston, He was no Costermonger; But Cornwall's Earl, and here's one dy'd, 'Cause he could live no longer.

The Lady Mohun, Dutchess of York, And Duke of York's Wife also; But Death resolv'd to Horn the Duke, She lies now with Death below.

The Lady Ann Ross, but wot ye well, That she in Childbed dy'd; The Lady Marquiss of Winchester, Lies Buried by her side.

Now think your Penny well spent good Folks, And that you're not beguil'd; Within this Cup doth lie the Heart Of a French Embassador's Child.

But how the Devil it came to pass, On purpose, or by chance; The Bowels they lie underneath, The Body is in France.

[Sidenote: Dol. I warrant ye the Pharises carried it away.]

There's Oxford's Countess, and there also The Lady Burleigh her Mother; And there her Daughter, a Countess too, Lie close by one another.

These once were bonny Dames, and tho' There were no Coaches then, Yet could they jog their Tails themselves, Or had them jogg'd by Men.

[Sidenote: Dick. Ho, ho, ho, I warrant ye they did as other Women did, ha Ralf. Ralf. Oy, Oy.]

But woe is me! those high born Sinners; That went to pray so stoutly; Are now laid low, and 'cause they can't, Their Statues pray devoutly.

This is the Dutchess of Somerset, By Name the Lady Ann; Her Lord Edward the Sixth Protected, Oh! he was a Gallant Man.

[Sidenote: Tom. I have heard a Ballad of him sang at Ratcliff Cross. Mol. I believe we have it at home over our Kitchin Mantle-Tree.]

In this fair Monument which you see, Adorn'd with so many Pillars; Doth lie the Countess of Buckingham, And her Husband, Sir George Villers.

This old Sir George was Grandfather, And the Countess she was Granny; To the great Duke of Buckingham, Who often topt King Jammy.

Sir Robert Eatam, a Scotch Knight, This Man was Secretary; And scribl'd Compliments for two Queens, Queen Ann, and eke Queen Mary.

This was the Countess of Lenox, Yclep'd the Lady Marget: King James's Grandmother, and yet 'Gainst Death she had no Target.

This was Queen Mary, Queen of Scots, Whom Buchanan doth bespatter; She lost her Head at Tottingham, What ever was the Matter.

[Sidenote: Dol. How came she here then? Will. Why ye silly Oafe could not she be brought here, after she was Dead?]

The Mother of our Seventh Henry, This is that lyeth hard by; She was the Countess wot ye well, Of Richmond and of Derby.

Henry the Seventh lieth here, With his fair Queen beside him, He was the Founder of this Chapel, Oh! may no ill betide him.

Therefore his Monument's in Brass, You'll say that very much is; The Duke of Richmond and Lenox, There lieth with his Dutchess.

[Sidenote: Rog. I warrant ye these were no small Fools in those days.]

And here they stand upright in a Press With Bodies made of Wax; With a Globe and a Wand in either Hand, And their Robes upon their Backs.

Here lies the Duke of Buckingham, And the Dutchess his Wife; Him Felton Stabb'd at Portsmouth Town, And so he lost his Life.

Two Children of King James these are, Whom Death keeps very chary; Sophia in the Cradle lies, And this is the Lady Mary.

[Sidenote: Bess. Good Woman pray still your Child, it keeps such a bawling, we can't hear what the Man says.]

And this is Queen Elizabeth, How the Spaniards did infest her? Here she lies Buried, with Queen Mary, And now agrees with her Sister.

To another Chapel now we come, The People follow and chat; This is the Lady Cottington, And the People cry, who's that?

This is the Lady Frances Sidney, The Countess of Suffolk was she; And this the Lord Dudley Carleton is, And then they look up and see.

Sir Thomas Brumley lieth here, Death would him not reprieve; With his four Sons, and Daughters four, That once were all alive.

The next is Sir John Fullerton, And this is his Lady I trow; And this is Sir John Puckering, Whom none of you did know.

That's the Earl of Bridgwater in the middle, Who makes no use of his Bladder; Although his Lady lie so near him, And so we go up a Ladder.

[Sidenote: Kate. He took more pains, than I would ha done for a Hundred such.]

Edward the First, that Gallant Blade, Lies underneath this Stone; And this is the Chair which he did bring, A good while ago from Scone.

In this same Chair, till now of late, Our Kings and Queens were Crown'd; Under this Chair another Stone Doth lie upon the Ground.

[Sidenote: Ralf. Gad I warrant there has been many a Maiden-head got in that Chair. Tom. Gad and I'll come hither and try one of these Days, an't be but to get a Prince. Dol. A Papist I warrant him.]

On that same Stone did Jacob sleep, Instead of a Down Pillow; And after that 'twas hither brought, By some good honest Fellow.

Richard the Second lieth here, And his first Queen, Queen Ann; Edward the Third lies here hard by, Oh! there was a Gallant Man.

For this was his two handed Sword, A Blade both true and Trusty; The French Men's Blood was ne'er wip'd off, Which makes it look so rusty.

Here he lies again, with his Queen Philip, A Dutch Woman by Record, But that's all one, for now alass! His Blade's not so long as his Sword.

King Edward the Confessor lies Within this Monument fine; I'm sure, quoth one, a worser Tomb Must serve both me and mine.

Harry the Fifth lies there, and there Doth lie Queen Eleanor; To our first Edward she was Wife, Which was more than ye knew before.

Henry the Third lies there Entomb'd, He was Herb John in Pottage; Little he did, but still Reign'd on, Although his Sons were at Age.

Fifty six Years he Reigned King, E'er he the Crown would lay by; Only we praise him, 'cause he was Last Builder of the Abby.

Here Thomas Cecil lies, who's that? Why 'tis the Earl of Exeter; And this his Countess is, to Die How it perplexed her.

[Sidenote: Dol. Ay, ay, I warrant her, rich Folks are as unwilling to die as poor Folks.]

Here Henry Cary, Lord Hunsdon rests, What a noise he makes with his Name? Lord Chamberlain was he unto Queen Elizabeth of great Fame.

[Sidenote: Sisly. That's he for whom our Bells ring so often, is it not Mary? Mol. Ay, ay, the very same.]

And here's one William Colchester Lies of a Certainty; An Abbot was he of Westminster, And he that saith no, doth lie.

This is the Bishop of Durham, By Death here lay'd in Fetters; Henry the Seventh lov'd him well, And so he wrote his Letters.

Sir Thomas Bacchus, what of him? Poor Gentleman not a Word; Only they Buried him here; but now Behold that Man with a Sword.

Humphry de Bohun, who though he were Not born with me i'the same Town; Yet I can tell he was Earl of Essex, Of Hertford, and Northampton.

He was High Constable of England, As History well expresses; But now pretty Maids be of good Chear, We're going up to the Presses.

And now the Presses open stand, And ye see them all arow; But never no more are said of these Then what is said below.

Now down the Stairs come we again, The Man goes first with a Staff; Some two or three tumble down the Stairs, And then the People laugh.

This is the great Sir Francis Vere, That so the Spaniards curry'd; Four Colonels support his Tomb, And here his Body's Buried.

That Statue against the Wall with one Eye, Is Major General Norris; He beat the Spaniards cruelly, As is affirm'd in Stories.

[Sidenote: Dick. I warrant ye he had two, if he could have but kep'd 'em.]

His six Sons there hard by him stand, Each one was a Commander; To shew he could a Lady serve, As well as the Hollander.

And there doth Sir John Hollis rest, Who was the Major General; To Sir John Norris, that brave blade, And so they go to Dinner all.

For now the Shew is at an end, All things are done and said; The Citizen pays for his Wife, The Prentice for the Maid.



A SONG Sung by Mrs. CAMPION, in the Comedy call'd, she wou'd and she wou'd not. By Mr. JOHN WELDON.

[Music]

Caelia my Heart has often rang'd, Like Bees o'er Gaudy Flowers; And many Thousand Loves have chang'd, 'Till it was fix'd, 'till it was fix'd on yours; But Caelia when I saw those Eyes, 'Twas soon, 'twas soon determin'd there; Stars might as well forsake the Skies, And Vanish into Air: Stars might as well forsake the Skies, And Vanish into Air.

Now if from the great Rules I err, New Beauties, new Beauties to admire; May I again, again turn wanderer, And never, never, never, never, never, no, never, Never, never, never, never, never, never, never, Never, never, never, settle more: May I again, again turn wanderer, And never, never, never, never, never, no, never, Never, never, never, never, never, never, never, Never, never, never, settle more.



A SONG made for the Entertainment of her Royal Highness. Set by Mr. LEVERIDGE. Sung by Mrs. LINDSEY in CALIGULA.

[Music]

Tho' over all Mankind, besides my conquering Beauty, Conquering beauty, my conquering beauty Reigns; My conquering Beauty Reigns; From him I love, from him I love when I meet disdain, A killing damp, a killing damp comes o'er my Pride: I'm fair and young, I'm fair and young, I'm fair and young in vain: I'm fair and young, I'm fair and young, I'm fair and young in vain; No, no, no, let him wander where he will, Let him wander, let him wander, Let him wander, let him wander where he will, I shall have Youth and Beauty, Youth and Beauty, Youth and Beauty, I shall have Youth and Beauty, Youth and Beauty still; I shall have Beauty that can charm a Jove, Can Charm a Jove, and no fault, No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no fault, no, no, no fault, But constant Love: From my Arms then let him fly, fly, fly, From my Arms then let him fly; Shall I languish, pine, and dye? No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no not I.



A SONG in the Fair PENITENT. Set by Mr. ECCLES. Sung by Mrs. HUDSON.

[Music]

Stay, ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly? Ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly? Whither, whither wou'd you fly? Too Charming, too Charming, too relentless Maid, I follow not to conquer, not to conquer, I follow not to conquer, but to dye: You of the fearful, of the fearful are afraid, Ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly? Whither, whither, whither, whither, ah whither wou'd you fly?

In vain, in vain I call, in vain, in vain I call, While she like fleeting, fleeting Air; When press'd by some tempestuous Wind, Flys swifter from the voice of my Despair: Nor cast a pitying, pitying, pitying, pitying look behind, No not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying look, Not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind, No not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind, No not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind.



A new SONG. The Words by Mr. Tho. Wall. Set to Musick by Mr. Henry Eccles, Junior.

[Music]

No more let Damon's Eyes pursue, No more let Damon's Eyes pursue, The bright enchanting Fair; Almira thousands, thousands, thousands can undo, And thousands more, and thousands more, And thousands more may still despair, And thousands more may still despair.

For oh her bright alluring Eyes, And Graces all admire; For her the wounded Lover dies, And ev'ry Breast, and ev'ry Heart, And ev'ry Breast is set on Fire.

Then oh poor Damon, see thy Fate, But never more complain; For all a Thousand Hearts will stake, And all may sigh, and all may die, And all may sigh and die in vain.



The DEAR JOY'S Lamentation.

[Music]

Ho my dear Joy, now what dost thou think? Hoop by my shoul our Country-men stink; To Ireland they can never return, The Hereticks there our Houses will burn: Ah hone, ah hone, ah hone a cree.

A Pox on T——l for a Son of a W——, He was the cause of our coming o'er; And when to Dublin we came to put on our Coats, He told us his business was cutting of Throats. Ah hone, &c.

Our Devil has left us now in the Lurch, A Plague light upon the Protestant C—— If P——s had let but the Bishops alone, O then the Nation had all been our own. Ah hone, &c.

And I wish other Measures had been taken, For now I fear we shan't save our Bacon; Now Orange to London is coming down-right, And the Soldiers against him resolve not to Fight Ah hone, &c.

What we shall do, the Lord himself knows, Our Army is beaten without any blows; Our M——r begins to feel some remorse, For the Grey Mare has proved the better Horse. Ah hone, &c.

If the French do but come, which is all our Hopes, We'll bundle the Hereticks all up with Ropes; If London stands to us as Bristol has done, We need not fear but Orange must run. Ah hone, &c.

But if they prove false, and to Orange they scower, By G—— all the M—— shall play from the Tower; Our Massacree fresh in their Memories grown, The Devil tauk me, we all shall go down. A hone, a hone, a hone a Cree.



The Character of a Seat's-man; written by one of the CRAFT: To be Sung on CRISPIN-Night. Tune Packington's Pound.

[Music]

I am one in whom Nature has fix'd a Decree, Ordaining my Life to happy and free; With no Cares of the World I am never perplex'd, And never depending, I never am vex'd: I'm neither of so high nor so low a degree, But Ambition and Want are both strangers to me; My life is a compound of Freedom and Ease, I go where I will, and I work when I please: I live above Envy, and yet above Spight, And have Judgment enough for to do my self right; Some greater and richer I own there may be, Yet as many live worse, as live better than me, And few that from Cares live so quiet and free.