His Bagpipes into Warlike sounds, Must now converted be; His Garlands into fearful Wounds, Oh! what becomes of me?

_A_ SONG; _to the Tune of_ Woobourn _Fair._

Vol. 4. Pag. 330.

Jilting is in such a Fashion, And such a Fame, Runs o'er the Nation, There's never a Dame Of highest Rank, or of Fame, Sir, but will stoop to your Caresses, If you do but put home your Addresses: It's for that she Paints, and she Patches, All she hopes to secure is her Name, Sir.

But when you find the Love fit comes upon her, Never trust much to her Honour; Tho' she may very high stand on't, Yet when her love is Ascendant, Her Vertue's quite out of Doors High Breeding, rank Feeding, With lazy Lives leading, In Ease and soft Pleasures, And taking loose Measures, With Play-house Diversions, And Midnight Excursions, With b.a.l.l.s Masquerading, And Nights Serenading, Debauch the s.e.x into Wh.o.r.es, Sir.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ PACK.

[Music]

Farewel ungrateful Traytor, Farewel my Perjur'd Swain: Let never injur'd Creature, Believe a Man again: The pleasure of possessing, Surpa.s.ses all expressing; But Joys too short a Blessing, And love too long a Pain: _But Joys too short a Blessing,_ _And Love too long a Pain._

'Tis easie to deceive us, In pity of your Pain; But when we Love, you leave us, To rail at you in vain: Before we have descry'd it, There is no Bliss beside it; But she that once has try'd it, Will never Love again.

The Pa.s.sion you pretended, Was only to obtain; But when the Charm is ended, The Charmer you disdain: Your Love by ours we measure, 'Till we have lost our Treasure; But dying is a Pleasure, When living is a Pain.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

You I Love by all that's true, More than all things here below; with a Pa.s.sion far more great, Than e'er Creature loved yet: And yet still you cry forbear, Love no more, or Love not here.

Bid the Miser leave his Ore, Bid the Wretched sigh no more; Bid the Old be young again, Bid the _Nun_ not think of Man: _Sylvia_ thus when you can do, Bid me then not think on you.

Love's not a thing of Choice, but Fate, What makes me Love, that makes you Hate: _Sylvia_ you do what you will, Ease or Cure, Torment or Kill: Be Kind or Cruel, False or True, Love I must, and none but you.

_A_ SONG.

Note: _You must Sing 8 lines to the first Strain._

[Music]

Let's be merry blith and jolly, Stupid Dulness is a Folly; 'Tis the Spring that doth invite us, Hark, the chirping Birds delight us: Let us Dance and raise our Voices, Every Creature now rejoyces; Airy Blasts and springing Flowers, Verdant Coverings, pleasant Showers: Each plays his part to compleat this our Joy, And can we be so dull as to deny.

Here's no foolish surly Lover, That his Pa.s.sions will discover; No conceited fopish Creature, That is proud of Cloaths or Feature: All things here serene and free are, They're not Wise, are not as we are; Who acknowledge Heavens Blessings, In our innocent Caressings: Then let us Sing, let us Dance, let us Play, 'Tis the Time is allow'd, 'tis the Month of _May_.

_A New_ SONG, _the Words by Mr._ J.C. _Set to Musick by Dr._ Prettle.

[Music]

No _Phillis_, tho' you've all the Charms, Ambitious Woman can desire; All Beauty, Wit, and Youth that warms, Or sets our foolish Hearts on fire: Yet you may practice all your Arts, In vain to make a Slave of me; You ne'er shall re-engage my Heart, Revolted from your Tyranny: _You ne'er shall re-engage my Heart,_ _Revolted from your Tyranny._

When first I saw those dang'rous Eyes, They did my Liberty betray; But when I knew your Cruelties, I s.n.a.t.c.h'd my simple Heart away: Now I defy your Smiles to win, My resolute Heart, no pow'r th'ave got; Tho' once I suck'd their Poyson in, Your Rigour prov'd an Antidote.

_The Epilogue to the_ Island Princes, _Set by Mr._ Clark, _Sung by Mrs._ Lindsey, _and the Boy._

[Music]

Now to you ye dry Wooers, Old Beaus, and no doers, So doughty, so gouty, So useless and toothless, Your blindless, cold kindness, Has nothing of Man; Still doating, or gloating, Still stumbling, or fumbling, Still hawking, still baulking, You flash in the Pan: Unfit like old Brooms, For sweeping our Rooms, You're sunk and you're shrunk, Then repent and look to't; In vain you're so upish, in vain you're so upish.

You're down ev'ry foot.

_A_ Scotch SONG, _Set by Mr._ R. BROWN.

[Music]

_Jockey_ loves his _Moggy_ dearly, He gang'd with her to _Perth_ Fair; There we Sung and Pip'd together, And when done, then down I'd lay her: I so pull'd her, and so lull'd her, Both o'erwhelm'd with muckle Joy; _Mog._ kiss'd _Jockey_, _Jockey_ _Moggy_, From long Night to break of Day.

I told _Mog._ 'twas muckle pleasing, _Moggey_ cry'd she'd do again such; I reply'd I'd glad gang with thee, But 'twould wast my muckle Coyn much: She lamented, I relented, Both wish'd Bodies might increase; Then we'd gang next Year together, And my Pipe shall never cease.

_A_ SONG, _in the_ Lucky Younger Brother, _or, the_ Beau Defeated; _Set by Mr._ John Eccles, _and Sung by Mr._ BOWMAN.

[Music]