_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Tell me ye _Sicilian_ Swains, Why this Mourning's o'er your Plains; Where's your usual Melody?

Why are all your Shepherds mad, And your Shepherdesses sad?

What can the mighty meaning be?

_Chorus._ _Sylvia_ the Glory of our Plains; _Sylvia_ the Love of all our Swains; That blest us with her Smiles: Where ev'ry Shepherd had a Heart, And ev'ry Shepherdess a Part; Slights our G.o.ds, and leaves our Isle, Slights our G.o.ds, and leaves our Isle.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

When gay _Philander_ left the Plain, The Love, the Life of ev'ry Swain; His Pipe the mournful _Strephon_ took, By some sad Bank and murm'ring Brook: Whilst list'ning Flocks forsook their Food, And Melancholy by him stood; On the cold Ground himself he laid, And thus the Mournful Shepherd play'd.

Farewel to all that's bright and gay, No more glad Night and chearing Day; No more the Sun will gild our Plain, 'Till the lost Youth return again: Then every pensive Heart that now, With Mournful Willow shades his Brow; Shall crown'd with chearful Garlands sing, And all shall seem Eternal Spring.

Say, mighty _Pan_, if you did know, Say all ye rural G.o.ds below; 'Mongst all Youths that grac'd your Plain, So gay so beautiful a Swain: In whose sweet Air and charming Voice, Our list'ning Swains did all Rejoyce; Him only, O ye G.o.ds! restore Your Nymphs, and Shepherds ask no more.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ THO. KINGSLEY.

[Music]

How Happy's the Mortal whose Heart is his own, And for his own Quiet's beholden to none, (_Eccho._ Beholden to none, to none;) That to Love's Enchantments ne'er lendeth an Ear, Which a Frown or a Smile can equally bear, (_Eccho._ Can equally bear, can bear,) Nor on ev'ry frail Beauty still fixes an Eye, But from those sly Felons doth prudently fly, (_Eccho._ Doth prudently, prudently fly, doth fly;) For the Heart that still wanders is pounded at last, And 'tis hard to relieve it when once it is fast, (_Eccho._ When once it is fast, is fast.)

By sporting with Dangers still longer and longer, The Fetters and Chains of the Captive grows stronger; He drills on his Evil, then curses his Fate, And bewails those Misfortunes himself did create: Like an empty Camelion he lives on the Air, And all the Day lingers 'twixt Hope and Despair; Like a Fly in the Candle he sports and he Games, 'Till a Victim in Folly, he dies in the Flames.

If Love, so much talk'd of, a Heresie be, Of all it enslaves few true Converts we see; If hectoring and huffing would once do the Feat, There's few that would fail of a Vict'ry Compleat; But with Gain to come off, and the Tyrant subdue, Is an Art that is. .h.i.therto practis'd by few; How easie is Freedom once had to maintain, But Liberty lost is as hard to regain.

This driv'ling and sniv'ling, and chiming in Parts, This wining and pining, and breaking of Hearts; All pensive and silent in Corners to sit, Are pretty fine Pastimes for those that want Wit: When this Pa.s.sion and Fashion doth so far abuse 'em, It were good the State should for Pendulums use 'em; For if Reason it seize on, and make it give o'er, No Labour can save, or reliev't any more.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Henry Purcell.

[Music]

A Thousand several ways I try'd, To hide my Pa.s.sion from your view; Conscious that I should be deny'd, Because I cannot Merit you: Absence, the last and worst of all, Did so encrease my wretched Pain, That I return'd, rather to fall By the swift Fate, by the swift Fate of your Disdain.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

To the Grove, gentle Love, let us be going, Where the kind Spring and Wind all Day are Woing; He with soft sighing Blasts strives to o'er-take her, She would not tho' she flies, have him forsake her, But in circling Rings returning, And in purling Whispers Mourning; She swells and pants, as if she'd say, Fain I would, but dare not stay.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ FISHBURN.

[Music]

Tell me no more of Flames in Love, That common dull pretence, Fools in Romances use to move Soft Hearts of little Sense: No, _Strephon_, I'm not such a Slave, Love's banish'd Power to own; Since Interest and Convenience have So long usurp'd his Throne.

No burning Hope or cold Despair, Dull Groves or purling Streams, Sighing and talking to the Air In Love's fantastick Dreams, Can move my Pity or my Hate, But Satyrist I'll prove, And all ridiculous create That shall pretend to Love.

Love was a Monarch once, 'tis true, And G.o.d-like rul'd alone, And tho' his Subjects were but few, Their Hearts were all his own; But since the Slaves revolted are, And turn'd into a State, Their Int'rest is their only Care, And Love grows out of Date.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ FISHBURN.

[Music]

Wealth breeds Care, Love, Hope and Fear; What does Love our Business hear?

While _Bacchus_ merry does appear, Fight on and fear no sinking, Charge it briskly to the Brim, 'Till the flying Top-sails swim, We owe the great Discovery to him Of this new World of Drinking.

Grave Cabals that States refine, Mingle their Debates with Wine; _Ceres_ and the G.o.d o'th' Wine; Makes every great Commander.

Let sober Sots Small-beer subdue, The Wise and valiant Wine does woe; The _Stagyrite_ had the honour to Be drunk with _Alexander_.

Stand to your Arms, and now Advance A Health to the _English_ King of _France_; On to the next a _bon Speranze_, By _Bacchus_ and _Apollo_.

Thus in State I lead the Van, Fall in your Place by your right-hand Man, Beat Drum! now March! Dub a dub, ran dan, He's a _Whig_ that will not follow.