V. ALBION, loved of gods and men, Still thou art the care of heaven, In thy age, when none could aid thee, Still thou art the care of heaven. XVII. SONGS IN KING ARTHUR. Where a battle is supposed to be given behind the scenes, with drums, trumpets, and military shouts and excursions; after which, the Britons, expressing their joy for the victory, sing this song of triumph. I. COME, if you dare, our trumpets sound; We come, we come, we come, we come, Says the double, double, double beat of the thunder ing drum. Now they charge on amain, The gods from above the mad labour behold, To the plunder we run: We return to our lasses like fortunate traders, Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish'd invaders. II. MAN SINGS. O sight, the mother of desires, To see the rosy morning gild The mountain-tops, and paint the field! CHORUS. When fair Clarinda comes in sight, &c. WOMAN SINGS. 'Tis sweet the blushing morn to view; And plains adorn'd with pearly dew: But such cheap delights to see, Heaven and nature Give each creature ; They have eyes, as well as we; This is the joy, all joys above, To see, to see, That only she, That only she we love! CHORUS. This is the joy, all joys above, &c. III. Two daughters of this aged stream are we; Come naked in, for we are so : What danger from a naked foe? Come bathe with us, come bathe, and share What pleasures in the floods appear; We'll beat the waters till they bound, And circle round, around, around, And circle round, around. IV. YE blustering brethren of the skies, Whose breath has ruffled all the watery plain, Retire, and let Britannia rise, In triumph o'er the main. Serene and calm, and void of fear, Retreat, rude winds, retreat To hollow rocks, your stormy seat; There swell your lungs, and vainly, vainly threat. V. FOR folded flocks, on fruitful plains, Where pleasure mix'd with profit lies. Though Jason's fleece was famed of old, No mines can more of wealth supply; VI. FAIREST isle, all isles excelling, Cupid from his favourite nation Gentle murmurs, sweet complaining, Soft repulses, kind disdaining, Shall be all the pains you prove. Every swain shall pay his duty, Grateful every nymph shall prove ; And as these excel in beauty, Those shall be renown'd for love. XVIII. SONG OF JEALOUSY, IN LOVE TRIUMPHANT. WHAT state of life can be so blest O Jealousy! "Tis all from thee, O Jealousy! Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, All other ills, though sharp they prove, From Jealousy: Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, |