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The sun first rising in the morn,
That paints the dew-bespangled thorn,
Does not so much the day adorn,
As does my lovely Peggy:
And when in Thetis' lap to rest,
He streaks with gold the ruddy west,
He's not so beauteous as undress'd
Appears my lovely Peggy.
When Zephyr on the violet blows,
Or breathes upon the damask rose,
He does not half the sweets disclose
That does my lovely Peggy.
I stole a kiss the other day,
And, trust me, nought but truth I say,
The fragrance of the blooming May
Is not so sweet as Peggy.
Were she array'd in rustic weed,
With her the bleating flocks I'd feed,
And pipe upon the oaten reed,
To please my lovely Peggy:
With her a cottage would delight,
All's happy when she's in my sight;
But when she's gone it's endless night—
All's dark without my Peggy.
While bees from flow'r to flow'r shall rove,
And linnets warble through the grove,
Or stately swans the rivers love,
So long shall I love Peggy:
And when death with his pointed dart
Shall strike the blow that rives my heart,
My words shall be, when I depart,
"Adieu, my lovely Peggy!"
I love Sue, and Sue loves me,
And while the wind blows,
And while the mill goes,
Who'll be so happy, so happy as we?
Let lords and fine folks, who for wealth take
Be married to-day, and to-morrow be cloy'd:
My body is stout, and my heart is as sound;
And my love, like my courage, will never give
Chorus I love Sue, &c.
Let ladies of fashion the best jointures wed,
And prudently take the best bidders to bed:
Such signing and sealing's no part of our bliss;
We settle our hearts, and we seal with a kiss.
Chorus--I love Sue, &c.
Though Ralph is not courtly, nor none of your
Nor bounces, nor flatters, nor wears your fine
In nothing he'll follow the folks of high life,
Nor e'er turn his back on his friend or his wife.
Chorus I love Sue, &c.
While thus I am able to work at my mill,
While thus thou art kind, and thy tongue but
Our joys shall continue and ever be new,
And none be so happy as Ralph and his Sue.
Chorus--I love Sue, &c.
$74. Sung in the Winter's Tale. GARRICK.
COME, come, my good shepherds, our flocks
we must shear;
In your holiday-suits with your lasses appear:
The happiest of folk are the guileless and free;
And who are so guileless, so happy, as we?
We harbor no passions by luxury taught,
We practise no arts with hypocrisy fraught;
What we think in our hearts you may read in
For, knowing no falsehood, we need no disguise.
By mode and caprice are the city dames led,
But we as the children of Nature are bred;
By her hand alone we are painted and dress'd;
For the roses will bloom when there's peace in
That giant, ambition, we never can dread;
Our roofs are too low for so lofty a head:
Content and sweet cheerfulness open our door,
They smile with the simple, and feed with the
When love has possest us, that love we reveal;
Like the flocks that we feed are the passions we
So harmless and simple we sport and we play,
And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray.
$75. Song. GARRICK.
Ye fair married dames, who so often deplore
That a lover once blest is a lover no more;
Attend to my counsel, nor blush to be taught
That prudence must cherish what beauty has
The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of
§76. Song in Harlequin's Invasion. GARRICK.
To arms! ye brave mortals, to arms:
The road to renown lies before ye!
The name of King Shakspeare has charms
To rouse you to actions of glory.
Away! ye brave mortals, away!
"Tis Nature calls on you to save her; What man but would Nature obey,
And fight for her Shakspeare for ever!
§77. Song in the same. GARRICK. THRICE happy the nation that Shakspeare has charm'd!
More happy the bosoms his genius has warm'd! Ye children of nature, of fashion, and whim, He painted you all, all join to praise him. Chorus. Come away! come away!
His genius calls-you must obey. From highest to lowest, from old to the young, All states and conditions by him have been sung; All passions and humors were rais'd by his pen; He could soar with the eagle, and sink with the wren.
Chorus. Come away, &c.
To praise him ye Fairies and Genii repait,
He knew where ye haunted, in earth or in air:
No phantom so subtle could glide from his view,
The wings of his fancy were swifter than you.
Chorus. Come away! come away!
His genius calls—you must obey.
§ 78. Song in the Country Girl. GARRICK.
TELL not me of the roses and lilies
Which tinge the fair cheek of your Phyllis;
Tell not me of the dimples and eyes
For which silly Corydon dies:
Let all whining lovers go hang;
My heart would you hit,
Tip your arrow with wit,
And it comes to my heart with a twang, twang,
And it comes to my heart with a twang.
I am rock to the handsome and pretty,
Can only be touch'd by the witty;
And beauty will ogle in vain :
The way to my heart's through my brain.
Let all whining lovers go hang:
We wits, you must know,
Have two strings to our bow,
To return them their darts with a twang, twang, To return them their darts with a twang.
§ 79. Air in Cymon. GARRICK.
You gave me last week a young linnet,
Shut up in a fine golden cage;
Yet how sad the poor thing was within it,
O how it did flutter and rage!
Then he mop'd and he pin'd,
That his wings were confin'd,
Till I open'd the door of his den:
Then so merry was he;
And, because he was free,
He came to his cage back again.
§ 80. Air in Cymon. GARRICK. YET a while, sweet sleep, deceive me, Fold me in thy downy arms; Let not care awake to grieve me, Lull it with thy potent charms. I, a turtle doom'd to stray,
Quitting young the parent's nest, Find each bird a bird of prey;
Sorrow knows not where to rest!
§ 81. Shakspeare's Mulberry Tree. GARRICK. BEHOLD this fair goblet! 'twas carv'd from the tree,
Which, O my sweet Shakspeare, was planted by thee!
As a relic I kiss it, and bow at thy shrine,
What comes from thy hand must be ever divine!
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree;
Bend to thee,
Matchless was he
Who planted thee,
And thou like him immortal shalt be.
Ye trees of the forest, so rampant and high,
Who spread round your branches, whose heads
Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought
sweep the sky;
To root out the natives at prices so dear; [here
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. The oak is held royal, is Britain's great boast, Preserv'd once our king, and will always our coast; [that fight, But of fir we make ships, we have thousands While one, only one, like our Shakspeare can
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. Let Venus delight in her gay myrtle bowers, Pomona in fruit-trees, and Flora in flowers; With the sweetest of flowers, and fairest of fruit. The garden of Shakspeare all fancies will suit, All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. With learning and knowledge the well-letter'd birch [church; Supplies law and physic, and grace for the But law and the gospel in Shakspeare we find, And he gives the best physic for body and mind.
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree, From him and his merits this takes its degree; Let Phoebus and Bacchus their glories resign, Our tree shall surpass both the laurel and vine. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. The genius of Shakspeare outshines the bright day,
More rapture than wine to the heart can convey;
So the tree that he planted, by making his own,
Has laurel, and bays, and the vine, all in one.
. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c.
Then each take a relic of this hallow'd tree;
From folly and fashion a charm let it be:
Fill, fill to the planter the cup to the brim;
To honor the country, do honor to him.
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree;
Bend to thee,
Matchless was he
Who planted thee,
And thou, like him, immortal shalt be.
§ 82. The Friar of Orders Grey. "Dispersed through Shakspeare's plays are innumerable little fragments of ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplimental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little tale. One small fragment was taken from Beaumont and
It was a friar of orders grey
Walk'd forth to tell his beads;
And he met with a lady fair,
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.
Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
I pray thee tell to me,
If ever, at yon holy shrine,
My true-love thou didst see.
And how should I know your true-love
From many another one?—
O, by his cockle hat and staff,
And by his sandal shoon:
But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks, that sweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue.
O lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green-grass turf,
And at his heels a stone.
Within these holy cloisters long
He languish'd, and he died,
Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'plaining of her pride.
Here bore him, bare-faced on his bier,
Six proper youths and tall;
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.
And art thou dead, thou gentle youth?
And art thou dead and gone?
And didst thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of stone!
O weep not, lady, weep not so!
Some ghostly comfort seek:
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.
O do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth
That e'er won lady's love.
And now, alas! for thy sad loss,
I'll ever weep and sigh ;
For thee I only wish to live,
For thec I wish to die.
Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
Thy sorrow is in vain :
For violets pluck'd, the sweetest show'rs
Will ne'er make grow again.
Our joys as winged dreams do fly,
Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past.
O say not so, thou holy friar!
I pray thee, say not so!
For since my true-love died for me,
'Tis meet my tears should flow.
And will he never come again?
Will he ne'er come again?
Ah, no! he is dead, and laid in his grave,
For ever to remain.
His cheek was redder than the rose,
The comeliest youth was he.
But he is dead, and laid in his grave,
Alas! and woe is me!
Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on sea, and one on land,
To one thing constant never.
Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
And left thee sad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer-trees were leafy.
Now say not so, thou holy friar,
pray thee, say not so !
My love he had the truest heart;
O he was ever true!
ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-ey'd Susan came on board,
O where shall I my true-love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among your crew.
William, who high upon the yard
Rock'd by the billows to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below;
The cord glides swiftly through his glowing
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.
So the sweet lark, high-pois'd in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.
O Susan, Susan, lovely dear!
My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear:
We only part to meet again.
Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.
Believe not what the landmen say,
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
At every port a mistress find.
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I
If to fair India's coast we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright;
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory so white.
Thus every beauteous object that I view
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
Though battle calls me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet free from harms,
William shall to his dear return:
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.
The boatswain gives the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosoms spread;
No longer must she stay on board:
They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head;
ler less'ning boat unwilling rows to land;
dieu! she cries, and wav'd her lily hand.
§ 84. Song. ROWE.
s on a summer's day,
1 the greenwood shade I lay,
The maid that I lov'd,
As her fancy mov'd,
ame walking forth that way.
And as she passed by,
With a scornful glance of her eye,
What a shame, quoth she,
For a swain must it be,
Like a lazy loon for to lie!
And dost thou nothing heed
What Pan our god has decreed,
What a prize to-day
Shall be given away
To the sweetest shepherd's reed?
There's not a single swain
Of all this fruitful plain,
But with hopes and fears
Now busily prepares
The bonny boon to gain.
Shall another maiden shine
In brighter array than thine?
Tune thy pipe once again,
And make the garland mine.
Alas! my love, I cried,
What avails this courtly pride?
Since thy dear desert
Is written in my heart,
What is all the world beside?
To me thou art more gay,
In this homely russet grey,
Than the nymphs of our green,
So trim and so sheen,
Or the brightest queen of May.
What though my fortune frown,
And deny thee a silken gown;
My own dear maid,
Be content with this shade,
And a shepherd all thy own.
$85. Song. PRIOR.
ALEXIS shunn'd his fellow-swains,
Their rural sports and jocund strains:
Heaven shield us all from Cupid's bow!
He lost his crook, he left his flocks,
And, wand'ring through the lonely rocks,
He nourish'd endless woe.
The nymphs and shepherds round him came,
His grief some pity, others blame,
The fatal cause all kindly seek;
He mingled his concern with theirs,
gave them back their friendly tears,
He sigh'd, but could not speak.
Clarinda came, among the rest;
And she, too, kind concern express'd,
And ask'd the reason of his woe;
She ask'd, but with an air and mien
That made it easily foreseen
She fear'd too much to know.
The shepherd rais'd his mournful head:
And will you pardon me, he said,
While I the cruel truth reveal;
Which nothing from my breast should tear,
Which never should offend your ear,
But that you bid me tell?
ONE morning very early, one morning in the spring,
I heard a maid in Bedlam, who mournfully did
sing; Her chains she rattled on her hands, while [me. sweetly thus sung she, I love my love, because I know my love loves O cruel were his parents who sent my love to sea, And cruel, cruel was the ship that bore my love from me!
Yet I love his parents, since they're his, altho' they've ruin'd me,
And I love my love, because I know my love loves me.
O! should it please the pitying pow'rs to call me to the sky,
I'd claim a guardian angel's charge, around my love to fly;
To guard him from all dangers, how happy should I be !
For I love my love, because I know
I'll make a strawy garland, I'll make it won-
With roses, lilies, daisies, I'll mix the eglantine,
And I'll present it to my love, when he returns
For I love my love, because I know my love
his O if I were a little bird to build upon [rest! breast, Or if I were a nightingale to sing my love to To gaze upon his lovely eyes all my reward
For I love my love, because I know my loves me.
O, if I were an eagle, to soar into the sky!
I'd around with piercing eyes where I my
love might spy:
But ah, unhappy maiden! that love
When in the silence of the grove
Poor Damon thus despair'd of love:
Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose
From the hard rock or oozy beach,
Who from each weed that barren grows
Expects the grape or downy peach,
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in woman-kind.
No herds have I, no fleecy care,
No fields that wave with golden grain,
No pastures green, or gardens fair,
A woman's venal heart to gain;
Then all in vain my sighs must prove,
Whose whole estate, alas! is love.
How wretched is the faithful youth,
Since women's hearts are bought and sold!
They ask no vows of sacred truth;
Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold:
Gold can the frowns of scorn remove;
But I am scorn'd-who have but love.
To buy the gem of India's coast
What wealth, what riches, would suffice?
Yet India's shore should never boast
The lustre of thy rival eyes;
For there the world too cheap must prove:
Can I then buy-who have but love?
Then, Mary, since nor gems nor ore
Can with thy brighter self compare,
Be just, as fair, and value more
Than gems or ore a heart sincere :
Let treasure meaner beauties move;
Who pays thy worth must pay in love.
WHAT beauties does Flora disclose!
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed!
But Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,
Nor all the gay flow'rs of the field,
Nor Tweed gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure can yield.
The warblers are heard in each grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove,
With music enchant ev'ry bush.
Come, let us go forth to the mead,
Let us see how the primroses spring;
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love while the feather'd folks sing.
How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray,
While happily she lies asleep?
Yet I love my love, because I know my love Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest;
Kind Nature indulging my bliss, To relieve the soft pains of my breast I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.
'Tis she does the virgins excel,
No beauty with her can compare; Love's graces all round her do dwell, She's farrest where thousands are fair.