The Hive: A Collection of the Most Celebrated Songs ...

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J. Walthoe, 1727
 

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第 155 頁 - But now our fears tempestuous grow, And cast our hopes away ; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play ; Perhaps, permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.
第 87 頁 - But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.
第 269 頁 - Word and oath, Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine. Yet send me back my heart and eyes, That I may...
第 35 頁 - Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest ; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have ; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave.
第 55 頁 - She cast not back a pitying eye : But left her lover in despair To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah! how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure? Great God of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land?
第 20 頁 - A sigh or tear, perhaps, she'll give, But love on pity cannot live. Tell her that hearts for hearts were made, And love with love is only paid.
第 55 頁 - Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst placed such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
第 105 頁 - Such beauty and pleasure does yield . The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, With music enchant every bush.
第 87 頁 - Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger, And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!
第 127 頁 - PHILLIS, men say that all my vows Are to thy fortune paid ; Alas ! my heart he little knows, Who thinks my love a trade. Were I of all these woods the lord, One berry from thy hand More real pleasure would afford Than all my large command. My humble love has learned to live On what the nicest maid, Without a conscious blush, may give Beneath the myrtle shade.

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