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 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,

say,

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!"

66

$73. Song. The Miller's Wedding. GARRICK, LEAVE, neighbours, your work, and to sport and to play;

Let the tabor strike up, and the village be gay: No day through the year shall more cheerful be

seen;

For Ralph of the Mill inarries Sue of the Green.

CHORUS.

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 a bride,

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 ground.

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

beaux,

Nor bounces, nor flatters, nor wears your fine clothes,

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 íny mill, While thus thou art kind, and thy tongue but lies still,

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 our eyes;

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 the breast.

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 poor.

When love has possest us, that love we reveal ; Like the flocks that we feed are the passions we

feel;

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 caught.

The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of

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,
Blest Mulberry!
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

write.

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 [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.

birch

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.

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 thee tell to me,
pray

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,

I

pray thee, say not so!

My love he had the truest heart;

O he was ever true!

And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth?
And didst thou die for me?
Then farewell, home! for evermore
A pilgrim I will be.

But first upon my true-love's grave
My weary limbs I'll lay;
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass
That wraps his breathless clay.

Yet stay, fair lady, stay a while
Beneath this cloister wall:

turf

See, through the hawthorn blows the wind,
And drizzly rain doth fall.

O stay me not, thou holy friar,
O stay me not, I pray!
No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away.
Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of grey,
Thy own true-love appears.
Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought:
And here, amidst these lonely walls,
To end my days I thought.
But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet pass'd away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay.