Poor Bess will return to the place whence she came,

Since the world is so mad she can hope for no cure;

For love's grown a bubble, a shadow, a name,
Which fools do admire, and wise men endure.

Cold and hungry am I grown;
Ambrosia will I feed upon,
Drink nectar still, and sing;
Who is content,

Does all sorrow prevent;
And Bess in her straw,
Whilst free from the law,

In her thoughts is as great as a king!

RENOLDS.

SWEETLY, IN LIFE'S, ETC.

-GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung by Miss Murray.

MAZZINGHI,

SWEETLY, in Life's jocund morning,
Beam'd on me a father's smile,
Joy with livelier charms adorning,
Cheering grave Instruction's toil.
Cruel Memory, too severely,

Tells me those blest hours are gone,
Which with him I priz'd so dearly:
He has frown'd, and they are flown.

Love, which drew these sorrows on me,
Love alone can yield relief;

The pitying power that has undone me,

Pours the balm that heals my grief.

Аа

What though Memory, so severely,
Tells me that my joys are gone,
Let but him I love so dearly

Smile, and all my cares are flown.

IN PITY, FOND BOSOM, LIE STILL!

FRANKLIN.

KELLY, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Mountain.

KELLY.

YES, now I shall think of that heart-broken maid
Whom, in days of my childhood, I knew;
All night she would weep in the cold willow shade,
And her tears mingle warm with the dew!

I have heard her exclaim, as she sadly reclin'd
'Mid the willows, all dripping and chill,—

I have heard her exclaim, while she shrunk in the wind,

"In pity, fond bosom, lie still!"

The youth whom she lov'd had been torn from her

arms

By a fate too severely unkind;

Thus wither'd, alas! was the rose of her charms,
And clouded the beams of her mind!

Sweet mourner! thy fortunes may haply be mine,
And I feel in my heart that they will!

Then sad shall I sing, with a sorrow like thine, "In pity, fond bosom, lie still!

LOST IN ANXIOUS DOUBTS.

ANONYMOUS.

PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Billington.

LOST in anxious doubts, tormenting
Terrors fill my lab'ring breast;
Ah, ye pow'rs! at length relenting,
To my troubled soul give rest..
Storms of ruin round me falling,
Each rising hope appalling,

Heaven, on thee for succour calling,
Oh! relieve me, thus distress'd.

BIANCHI.

LOVE SOUNDS THE TRUMPET OF JOY.

UPTON. AND -BLAND AND CO. LONDON.

Sung by Miss Daniels.

I LOVE, but I dare not say who;
Yet treasure his name in my heart;
Fond heart, which in infancy knew
Each tender access, and its smart.
And mutual, dear youth, is the flame;
A flame which no ill can annoy;
For Hymen shall sanction the same,
And Love sound the trumpet of Joy.

I grieve when my love is away,
Tho' seldom he leaves me behind;
Yet still I have something to say,
And charge him with being unkind..

REEVE

But why, silly girl, do I chide?

O tell me, dear Cupid, sweet boy!
When Hymen soon makes me a bride,
And Love sounds the trumpet of Joy.

I will not thee chide any more;

'Tis cruel to wound a fond swain;
O, rather his pardon implore,

Than triumph in giving him pain.
Nor thou, oh! my bosom's delight,
Think Rosa thy peace can destroy!
No; Hymen our hands shall unite,
And Love sound the trumpet of Joy.

MILTON.

SWEET ECHO.

PRESTON, LONDON,

DR ARNE,

Sung by Mrs Bland.

SWEET Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy cell,

By slow Meander's margent green,

And in the violet-embroider'd vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.

Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair,

That likest thy Narcissus are?

Oh, if you have

Hid them in some flow'ry cave,

Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere;

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all Heav'n's harmonies.

PENT WITHIN THIS CAVERN DREAR.

HOLMAN.

JONES, LONDON.

Sung by Miss De Camp.

PENT within this cavern drear,
Captive of a ruffian crew,
Startled at each sound I hear,
Shudd'ring at each face I view,-
In dread I pass the gloomy day,
And weep the sleepless night away.

Ere I mourn'd a fate so dire,

Sorrow was an inmate here;
Still her beams of heavenly fire

Hope display'd, my breast to cheer;

The gladd'ning ray she now denies,
For dimm'd is Hope when Freedom dies.

-DAVY,

ON THE LIGHTLY SPORTIVE WING.

HOARE.

-DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Madame Storace.

ON the lightly sportive wing,

At Pleasure's call, we fly!

Hark! they dance, they play, they sing,
In merry, merry revelry.

STORACE.