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Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight Fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love.

For see, the rosy May draws nigh!
She claims a virgin queen;
And hark, the happy shepherds cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen!

§ 23. Song. Sally in our Alley. CAREY.

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There's ne'er a lady in the land,
That's half so sweet as Sally :
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
And through the streets does cry 'em :

Her mother she sells laces long,

To such as choose to buy 'em :

But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes, like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely;
But let him bang his bellyfull,
I'll bear it all for Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week,
I dearly love but one day;
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;
For then I'm dress'd, all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed,
Because I leave him in the lurch,
As soon as text is named:
I leave the church in sermon time,
And slink away to Sally :
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
Oh! then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up, and box and all,
I'll give it to my honey.

And would it were ten thousand pound,
I'd give it all to Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all
Make game of me and Sally;

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§ 24. Song. The true Tar. By the same,
A KNAVE's a knave,
Though ne'er so brave,

Though diamonds round him shine;
What though he's great,
Takes mighty state,
And thinks himself divine?
His ill-got wealth

Can't give him health,
Or future ills prevent:
An honest tar
Is richer far,

If he enjoys content.

A soul sincere

Scorns fraud or fear,
Within itself secure ;

For vice will blast,
But virtue last

While truth and time endure.
Blow high, blow low,
Frown fate or foe,

He scorns to tack about;
But to his trust
Is strictly just,
And nobly stems it out.

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§ 26. Delia. A Pastoral. CUNNINGHAM,
THE gentle swan, with graceful pride,
Her glossy plumage laves,
And, sailing down the silver tide,
Divides the whispering waves:

The silver tide, that wandering flows,

Sweet to the bird must be!
But not so sweet, blithe Cupid knows,
As Delia is to me.

A parent-bird, in plaintive mood,
On yonder fruit-tree sung,
And still the pendant nest she view'd
That held her callow young:
Dear to the mother's fluttering heart
The genial brood must be;
But not so dear, the thousandth part,
As Delia is to me.

The roses that my brow surround

Were natives of the dale; Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound, Before their sweets grew pale! My vital bloom would thus be froze, If luckless torn from thee;

For what the root is to the rose,

My Delia is to me.

Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow,
So white the beauteous pair;
The birds on Delia I'll bestow,

They 're, like her bosom, fair!
When, in their chaste connubial love,
My secret wish she 'll see;
Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,
May Delia share with me.

§ 27. Song. AKENSIDE.
THE shape alone let others prize,
The features of the fair;
I look for spirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, and iv'ry arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win:
Give me an animated form,

That speaks a mind within :
A face where awful honor shines,
Where sense and sweetness move,
And angel innocence refines

The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame,
Without whose vital aid
Unfinish'd all her features seem,

And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,
How perfect is the view,
With ev'ry image of delight,
With graces ever new!

Of pow'r to charm the greatest woè,
The wildest rage control;
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,

And rapture through the soul.
Their pow'r but faintly to express
All language must despair;
But go, behold Arpasia's face,
And read it perfect there.

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THOU rising sun, whose gladsome ray
Invites my fair to rural play,
Dispel the mist, and clear the skies,
And bring my Orra to my eyes.

O were I sure my dear to view,

I'd climb that pine-tree's topmost bough,
Aloft in air that quiv'ring plays,
And round and round for ever gaze.

My Orra Moor, where art thou laid ?
What wood conceals my sleeping maid?
Fast by the roots, enrag'd, I'd tear
The trees that hide my promis'd fair.
O could I ride on clouds and skies,
Or on the raven's pinions rise!
Ye storks, ye swans, a moment stay,
And waft a lover on his way!

My bliss too long my bride denies :
Apace the wasting summer flies:
Nor yet the wintry blasts I fear,
Nor storms nor night shall keep me here.

What may for strength with steel compare?
O, Love has fetters stronger far!
By bolts of steel are limbs confin'd,
But cruel Love enchains the mind.

No longer then perplex thy breast;
When thoughts torment, the first are best;
'Tis mad to go, 'tis death to stay:
Away to Orra, haste away!

§ 30. Song. The Midsummer Wish. CROXALL. WAFT me, some soft and cooling breeze, To Windsor's shady, kind retreat; Where sylvan scenes, wide spreading trees, Repel the dog-star's raging heat:

Where tufted grass, and mossy beds,
Afford a rural, calm repose;
Where woodbines hang their dewy heads,
And fragrant sweets around disclose.

Old oozy Thames, that flows fast by,
Along the smiling valley plays,
His glassy surface cheers the eye,

And through the flow'ry meadow strays.

His fertile banks with herbage green,
His vales with golden plenty sweil;
Where'er his
purer streams are seen,
The gods of health and pleasure dwell.

Let me thy clear, thy yielding wave
With naked arm once more divide;
In thee my glowing bosom lave,

And stem thy gently-rolling tide.

Lay me, with damask roses crown'd,
Beneath some osier's dusky shade:
Where water-lilies deck the ground,
Where bubbling springs refresh the glade.

$31. Song. MISS WHATELEY.

COME, dear Pastora, come away!

And hail the cheerful spring:
Now fragrant blossoms crown the May,
And woods with love-notes ring:
Now Phoebus to the west descends,
And sheds a fainter ray;

And, as our rural labor ends,
We bless the closing day.

In yonder artless maple bow'r
With blooming woodbines twin'd,
Let us enjoy the evening hour,

On earth's soft lap reclin'd:
Or where yon poplar's verdant boughs
The crystal current shade;
O deign, fair nymph, to hear the vows
My faithful heart has made.

Within this breast no soft deceit,

No artful flatt'ry bides:

But truth, scarce known among the great,
O'er ev'ry thought presides:

On pride's false glare I look with scorn,
And all its glittering train;
Be mine the pleasures which adorn
This ever-peaceful plain.

Come then, my fair, and with thy love
Each rising care subdue;
Thy presence can each grief remove,
And ev'ry joy renew.

The lily fades, the rose grows faint,
Their transient bloom is vain;
But lasting truth and virtue paint
Pastora of the plain.

§ 32. Song.

COME, dear Amanda, quit the town,
And to the rural hamlets fly;
Behold, the wintry storms are gone,
A gentle radiance glads the sky.
The birds awake, the flowers appear,
Earth spreads a verdant couch for thee;
'Tis joy and music all we hear!

'Tis love and beauty all we see!

Come, let us mark the gradual spring,
How the buds, the blossom blows,
peep
Till Philomel begins to sing,

And perfect May to spread the rose.
Let us secure the short delight,

And wisely crop the blooming day; For soon, too soon, it will be night: Arise, my love, and come away.

§ 33. Song. From the Lapland Tongue. STEELE.

HASTE, my rein-deer, and let us nimbly go Our am'rous journey through this dreary

waste:

Haste, my rein-deer! still, still thou art too slow! [haste. Impetuous love demands the lightning's Around us far the rushy moors are spread:

Soon will the sun withdraw his cheerful ray; Darkling and tir'd we shall the marshes tread, No lay unsung to cheat the tedious way. The wat'ry length of these unjoyous moors Does all the flow'ry meadows' pride excel; Through these I fly to her my soul adores;

Ye flow'ry meadows, empty pride, farewell Each moment from the charmer I'm confin'd, My breast is tortur'd with impatient fires; Fly, my rein-deer, fly swifter than the wind! Thy tardy feet wing with my fierce desires. Our pleasing toil will then be soon o'erpaid, And thou, in wonder lost, shalt view my fair, Admire each feature of the lovely maid, Her artless charms, her bloom, her sprightly air,

§34. Song. Arno's Vale.

EARL OF MIDDLESEX.*

WHEN here, Lucinda, first we came,
Where Arno rolls his silver stream,

How blithe the nymphs, the swains how gay!
Content inspir'd each rural lay.
The birds in livelier concert sung,
The grapes in thicker clusters hung;
All look'd as joy could never fail
Among the sweets of Arno's vale.

* Charles Sackville, afterwards Duke of Dorset. It was written at Florence in 1737, on the death of John Gaston, the late Duke of Tuscany, of the house of Medici; and addressed to Signora Muscovita, a singer, a favorite of the author's.

But since the good Palemon died,
The chief of shepherds, and their pride,
Now Arno's sons must all give place
To northern men, an iron race.
The taste of pleasure now is o'er;
Thy notes, Lucinda, please no more;
The muses droop, the Goths prevail!
Adieu, the sweets of Arno's vale!

$35.

Song. The passionate Shepherd to his
Love.
MARLOW.

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, or hills and fields,
And all the steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of mirtle:
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:
A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be
iny love.

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If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain of cares to come.
The flow'rs do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reck'ning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,

All these to me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joy no date, nor age no need;
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

$37. Song. Summer. THOMAS BREREWOOD, Esq.

WHERE the light cannot pierce, in a grove of tall trees,

With my fair one as blooming as May, Undisturb'd by all sound but the sighs of the breeze,

Let me pass the hot noon of the day.

When the sun, less intense, to the westward inclines,

For the meadows the groves we'll forsake, And see the rays dance, as inverted he shines, On the face of some river or lake:

Where my fairest and I, on its verge as we pass

(For 'tis she that must still be my theme), Our shadows may view on the watery glass, While the fish are at play in the stream. May the herds cease to low, and the lambkins to bleat,

When she sings me some amorous strain; All be silent and hush'd, unless Echo repeat

The kind words and sweetsounds back again! And when we return to our cottage at night, Hand-in-hand as we sauntering stray, Let the moon's silver beams through the leaves give us light,

Just direct us, and chequer our way.

Let the nightingale warble its notes in our walk,
As thus gently and slowly we move;
And let no single thought be express'd in our
talk,

But of friendship improv'd into love.

Thus enchanted each day with these rural delights,

And secure from ambition's alarms, Soft love and repose shall divide all our nights, And each morning shall rise with new charus.

§ 38. Song. MOORE.

How bless'd has my time been, what joys have I known,

Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jesse my own!

So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain.

Through walks grown with woodbines as often we stray,

Around us our boys and girls frolic and play: How pleasing their sport is, the wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jesse and me.

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$39. A Song. FITZGERALD. THE charms which blooming beauty shows From faces heavenly fair,

We to the lily and the rose,

With semblance apt, compare.

With semblance apt; for, ah! how soon,
How soon they all decay!
The lily droops, the rose is gone,
And beauty fades away.

But when bright virtue shines confess'd,
With sweet discretion join'd;
When mildness calms the peaceful breast,
And wisdom guides the mind:

When charms like these, dear maid, conspire
Thy person to approve,
They kindle generous chaste desire,
And everlasting love.

Beyond the reach of time or fate
These graces shall endure;
Still, like the passion they create,
Eternal, constant, pure.

$ 40. Song.

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly, Drink with me, and drink as I: Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up: Make the most of life you may; Life is short, and wears away. Both alike are mine and thine, Hastening quick to their decline: Thine's a summer, mine no more, Though repeated to threescore; Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one.

$41. Song.

HAD Neptune, when first he took charge of the sea,

Been as wise, or at least been as merry, as we,

He'd have thought better on't, and instead of his brine [wine. Would have fill'd the vast ocean with generous What trafficking then would have been on the

main,

No fear then of tempests, or danger of sinking, For the sake of good liquor as well as for gain! The fishes ne'er drown that are always a-drinking.

The hot thirsty sun then would drive with more haste,

Secure in the evening of such a repast;
And when he'd got tipsy would have taken his
With double the pleasure in Thetis's lap. [nap
By the force of his rays, and thus heated with
wine,

Consider how gloriously Phoebus would shine;
What vast exhalations he'd draw up on high,
To relieve the poor earth as it wanted supply.
How happy us mortals, when bless'd with such
rain,

To fill all our vessels, and fill them again! Nay even the beggar, that has ne'er a dish, Might jump into the river, and drink like a fish.

What mirth and contentment on ev'ry one's brow, [plough! Hob as great as a prince dancing after the The birds in the air, as they play on the wing, Although they but sip, would eternally sing.

The stars, who, I think, don't to drinking incline,

Would frisk and rejoice at the fume of the wine; And, merrily twinkling, would soon let us

know

That they were as happy as mortals below.

Had this been the case, then what had we enjoy'd,

Our spirits still rising, our fancy ne'er cloy'd; A pox then on Neptune, when 'twas in his pow'r, To slip, like a fool, such a fortunate hour!

§ 42. A Song. SHENSTONE. ADIEU, ye jovial youths, who join To plunge old Care in floods of wine; And, as your dazzled eye-balls roll, Discern him struggling in the bowl!

Not yet is hope so wholly flown,
Not yet is thought so tedious grown,
But limpid streams and shady tree
Retain as yet some sweets for me.

And see, through yonder silent grove,
See yonder does my Daphne rove:
With pride her footsteps I pursue,
And bid your frantic joys adieu.
The sole confusion I admire,
Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire:
I scorn the madness you approve,
And value reason next to love.

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