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A COURT BALLAD.
To the Tune of "To all you Ladies now at Land," &c.
To one fair lady out of court,
And two fair ladies in,
Who think the Turk* and Popet a sport,
And wit and love no sin;
Come, these soft lines, with nothing stiff in,
in the dark third row,
Couches and crippled chairs I know,
And garrets hung with green; I know the swing of sinful hack, Where many damsels cry alack. With a fa, la, la.
Then why to courts should I repair,
Ulrick, the little Turk.
To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland,
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.*
With a fa, la, la.
Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,
Like Grafton court the Germans;
Like Meadows run to sermons;
In truth, by what I can discern,
At Leicester-Fields, a house full high,
(A Milliner I mean ;)
There may you meet us three to three,
But should you catch the prudish itch,
And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends; God send the king safe landing*; And make all honest ladies friends
To armies that are standing; Preserve the limits of these nations, And take off ladies' limitations.
With a fa, la, la.
This Ballad was written anno 1717.
THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.
Or gentle Philips will I ever sing, With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring. My numbers too for ever will I vary, With gentle Budgell, and with gentle Carey. Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill, With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell, Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye, Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy. May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye, And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye,
MR. POPE'S WELCOME FROM GREECE.
A Copy of Verses, written by MR. GAY upon MR. POPE'S having finished his Translation of HOMER'S ILIAD.
LONG hast thou, friend! been absent from thy soil, Like patient Ithacus at siege of Troy ;
I have been witness of thy six years' toil,
Thy daily labours, and thy night's annoy, Lost to thy native land, with great turmoil,
On the wide sea, oft threat'ning to destroy: Methinks with thee I've trod Sigæan ground, And heard the shores of Hellespont resound.
Did I not see thee when thou first sett'st sail
And wish thy bark had never left the strand?
And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand, Praying the Virgin dear, and saintly choir, Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.
Cheer up, my friend, thy dangers now are o'er;