SONG

(In the Lucky Chance, or an Alderman's Bargain).

O LOVE! that stronger art than wine,
Pleasing delusion, witchery divine,
Wont to be priz'd above all wealth,
Disease that has more joys than health;
Tho' we blaspheme thee in our pain,
And of thy tyranny complain,

We all are better'd by thy reign.

What Reason never can bestow,
We to this useful Passion owe.
Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease,
And learns a clown the art to please;
Humbles the vain, kindles the cold,
Makes misers free, and cowards bold.
'Tis he reforms the sot from drink,
And teaches airy fops to think.

When full brute Appetite is fed,

And choak'd the glutton lies, and dead;

Thou new spirits dost dispense,

And fin'st the gross delights of sense.

Virtue's unconquerable aid,

That against nature can persuade;

I

And makes a roving mind retire
Within the bounds of just desire ;
Cheerer of age, youth's kind unrest,
And half the heaven of the blest.

In Imitation of HORACE.

"WHAT mean those amorous curls of jet?
For what heart-ravish'd maid

Dost thou thy hair in order set,
Thy wanton tresses braid?

And thy vast store of beauties open lay,
That the deluded fancy leads astray?

For pity hide thy starry eyes,

Whose languishments destroy;

And look not on the slave that dies

With an excess of joy.

Defend thy coral lips, thy amber breath;

To taste these sweets, alas! is certain death.

Forbear, fond charming youth, forbear,
Thy words of melting love;

Thy eyes, thy language well may spare,
One dart enough can move.

And she that hears thy voice, and sees thy eyes, With too much pleasure, too much softness dies.

Cease, cease, with sighs to warm my soul,
Or press me with thy hand:

Who can the kindling fire control,

The tender force withstand?

Thy sighs and touches like wing'd lightning fly, And are the God of Love's artillery.

Scotch Song.

When Jemmy first began to love,
He was the gayest swain,
That ever yet a flock had drove,

Or danc'd upon the plain.

"Twas then that I, weys me poor heart,

My freedom threw away;

And finding sweets in every smart,
I could not say him nay.

And ever when he talk'd of love,
He would his eyes decline;
And every sigh a heart would move,

Gued faith, and why not mine?

He'd press my hand, and kiss it oft,
In silence spoke his flame,
And whilst he treated me thus soft,
I wish'd him more to blame.

Sometimes to feed my flocks with him
My Jemmy would invite me;
Where he the gayest songs would sing,
On purpose to delight me:
And Jemmy every grace display'd,
Which were enough, I trow,
To conquer any princely maid;
So did he me, I vow.

But now for Jemmy must I mourn,

Who to the wars must go; His sheep-hook to a sword must turn; Alack, what shall I do?

His bag-pipe into warlike sounds

Must now exchanged be;

Instead of bracelets, fearful wounds;

Then what becomes of me?

SONG.

DAMON, I cannot blame your will,
"Twas chance, and not design, did kill;
For whilst you did prepare your charms,
On purpose Sylvia to subdue,

I met the arrows as they flew,

And sav'd her from their harms.

Alas! she cannot make returns,
Who for a swain already burns,

A shepherd whom she does caress,
With all the softest marks of love;
And 'tis in vain thou seek'st to move
The cruel shepherdess.

Content thee with this victory,

Think me as fair and young as she:

I'll make thee garlands all the day,

And in the groves we'll sit and sing;
I'll crown thee with the pride o' the spring
When thou art lord of May.