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And shall I never more Alexis sce?
Then what is spring, or grove, or stream, to me?
Why sport the skipping lambs on yonder plain?
Why do the birds their tuneful voices strain?
Why frisk those heifers in the cooling grove?
Their happier life is ignorant of love.
"Oh! lead me to some melancholy cave,
To lull my sorrows in a living grave;
From the dark rock, where dashing waters fall,
And creeping ivy hangs the craggy wall;
Where I may waste in tears my hours away,
And never know the seasons or the day!
Die, die, Panthea!-y this hateful grove!
For what is life without the swain I love?"
Now Phoebus rose, and with his early beams
Wak'd slumbering Delia from her pleasing dreams;
Her wishes by her fancy were supply'd,
And in her sleep the nuptial knot was ty'd.
With secret joy she saw the morning ray
Chequer the floor, and through the curtains play;
The happy morn that shall her bliss complete,
And all her rivals' envious hopes defeat.
In haste she rose, forgetful of her prayers,
Flew to the glass, and practis'd o'er her airs:
Her new-set jewels round her robe are plac'd,
Some in a brilliant buckle bind her waist,
Some round her neck a circling light display,
Some in her hair diffus: a trembling ray;
The silver knot o'erlooks the Mechlin lace,
And adds becoming beauties to her face;
Brocaded flowers o'er the gay mantua shine,
And the rich stays her taper shape confine;
Thus all her dress exerts a graceful pride,
And sporting Loves surround th' expecting bride;
For Daphnis now attends the blushing maid,
Before the priest the solemn vows are paid;
This day, which ends at once all Delia's cares,
Shall swell a thousand eyes with secret tears.
"Cease, Araminta, 'tis in vain to grieve,
Canst thou from Hymen's bonds the youth retrieve?
Disdain his perjuries, and no longer mourn:
Recall my love, and find a sure return.”
But still the wretched maid no comfort knows,
And with resentment cherishes her woes;
Alone she pines, and, in these mournful strains,
Of Daphnis' vows, and her own fate, complains:
"Was it for this I sparkled at the play,
And loiter'd in the ring whole hours away?
When if thy chariot in the circle shone,
Our mutual passion by our looks was known:
Through the gay crowd my watchful glances flew,
Where'er I pass, thy grateful eyes pursue.
Ah, faithless youth! too well you saw my pain;
For eyes the language of the soul explain.
* Think, Daphnis, think, that scarce five days [you said; are fled, Since (0 false tongue!) those treacherous things How did you praise my shape and graceful air! And woman thinks all compliments sincere. Didst thou not then in rapture speak thy flame, And in soft sighs breathe Araminta's name? Didst thou not then with oaths thy passion prove, And, with an awful trembling, say- I love?'
"Ah, faithless youth! too well you saw my pain
For eyes the language of the soul explain.
"How could'st thou thus, ungrateful youth, de-
How could I thus, unguarded maid, believe?
Sure thou canst well recall that fatal night,
When subtle love first enter'd at my sight:
When in the dance I was thy partner chose,
Gods! what a rapture in my bosom rose!
My trembling hand my sudden joy confess'd,
My glowing cheeks a wounded heart express'd;
My looks spoke love; while you, with answering
In killing glances made as kind replies. [eyes,
Think, Daphnis, think, what tender things you said,
Think what confusion all my soul betray'd.
You call'd my graceful presence Cynthia's air;
And, when I sung, the Syrens charm'd your ear:
My flame, blown up by flattery, stronger grew;
A gale of love in every whisper flew.
"Ah, faithless youth! too well you saw my pain;
For eyes the language of the soul explain.
"Whene'er I dress'd, my maid, who knew my
Cherish'd my passion with thy lovely name;
Thy picture in her talk só lively grew,
That thy dear image rose before my view;
She dwelt whole hours upon thy shape and mien,
And wounded Delia's fame, to soothe my spleen:
When she beheld me at the name grow pale,
Straight to thy charms she chang'd her artful tale;
And, when thy matchless charms were quite run
I bid her tell the pleasing tale once more.
Oh, Daphnis! from thy Araminta fled!
Oh, to my love for ever, ever dead!
Like Death, his nuptials all my hope remove,
And ever part me from the man I love.
"Ah, faithless youth! too well you saw my pain;
For eyes the language of the soul explain.
"O might I by my cruel fate be thrown
In some retreat, far from this hateful town!
Vain dress and glaring equipage, adieu!
Let happier nymphs those empty shows pursue.
Me let some inclaucholy shade surround,
Where not the print of human step is found.
In the gay dance my feet no more shall move,
But bear me faintly through the lonely grove.
No more these hands shall o'er the spinnet bound,
And from the sleeping strings call forth the sound:
Music, adieu! farewell, Italian airs!
The croaking raven now shall soothe my cares.
On some old ruin, lost in thought, I rest,
And think how Araminta once was blest;
There o'er and o'er thy letters I peruse,
And all my grief in one kind sentence luse:
Some tender line by chance my woe beguiles,
And on my cheek a short-liv'd pleasure smiles.
Why is this dawn of joy? Flow, tears, again!
Vain are these oaths, and all these vows are vain;
Daphnis, alas! the Gordian knot has ty'd;
Nor force nor cunning can the band divide.
"Ah, faithless youth! since cyes the soul explain, Why knew I not that artful tongue could feign?”
ELEGY ON A LAP-DOG.
Snock's fate I mourn! poor Shock is now no more! Ye Muses, mourn! ye chambermaids, deplore!
Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair,
Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care!
Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck,
And tie the favourite ribband round his neck;
No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair,
And comb the wavings of his pendant ear.
Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid;
All mortal pleasures in a moment fade :
Our surcst hope is in an hour destroy'd;
And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoy'd.
Methinks I see her frantic with despair,
Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair;
Her Mechlin pinners, rent, the floor bestrow,
And her torn fan gives real signs of woe.
Hence Superstition, that tormenting guest,
That haunts with fancy'd fears the coward breast ;
No dread events upon this fate attend,
Stream, eyes, no more, no more thy tresses rend.
Though certain omens oft forewarn a state,
And dying lions show the monarch's fate;
Why should such fears bid Cælia's sorrow rise?
For, when a lap-dog falls, no lover dies.
Cease, Cælia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears,
Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares.
In man you'll find a more substantial bliss,
More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.
He's dead. Oh, lay him gently in the ground! And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd: "Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid: Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd.”
SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-
ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When Black'ey'd Susan came aboard.
Oh! where shall I my true-love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew."
William, who high upon the yard
Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.
So the sweet lark, high pois'd in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear)
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.
“O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear;
We only part to meet again.
Change, as ye Est, ye winds; my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.
"Believe not what the landmen say,
Who tempt with doubts thy co stant mind.
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
In every port a mistress find:
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present whereso'er I go.
"If to fair India's coast we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,' Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory so white.
Thus every beauteous object that I view, Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
'Though battle call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return.
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosom spread;
No longer must she stay aboard:
They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land: "Adieu!" she cries; and wav'd her lily hand.
FROM THE WHAT-D'YE-CALL-IT.
"TWAS when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind;
A damsel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclin'd.
Wide o'er the foaming billows
She cast a wistful look;
Her head was crown'd with willows,
That trembled o'er the brook.
"Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days.
Why didst thou, venturous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel Ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?
"The merchant, robb'd of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair;
But what's the loss of treasure,
To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.
"How can they say that Nature
Has nothing made in vain ;
Why then beneath the water
Should hideous rocks remain ?
No eyes the rocks discover,
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep."
All melancholy lying,
Thus wail'd she for her dear; Kepay'd each blast with sighing,
Each billow with a tear;
When o'er the white wave stooping,
His tioating corpse she spy'd ; Then, like a lily drooping,
She bow'd her head, and dy'd.
PHYLLIDA, that lov'd to dream
In the grove, or by the stream;
Sigh'd on velvet pillow.
What, alas! should fill her head,
But a fountain, or a mead,
Water and a willow?
"Love in cities never dwells,
He delights in rural cells
Which sweet woodbine covers. What are your assemblies then? There, 'tis true, we see more men ;
But much fewer lovers.
"Oh, how chang'd the prospect grows! Flocks and herds to fops and beaux,
Coxcombs without number!
Moon and stars that shone so bright,
To the torch and waxen light,
And whole nights at ombre. "Pleasant as it is, to hear Scandal tickling in our ear,
Ev'n of our own mothers;
In the chit-chat of the day,
To us is pay'd, when we're away,
What we lent to others.
"Though the favourite toast I reign; Wine, they say, that prompts the vain, Heightens defamation.
Must I live 'twixt spite and fear,
Every day grow handsomer,
And lose my reputation?"
Thus the fair to sighs gave way,
Her empty purse beside her lay.
Nymph, ah! cease thy sorrow.
Though curst Fortune frown to night,
This odious town can give delight,
If you win to morrow.
THE Sun was now withdrawn,
The shepherds home were sped;
The Moon wide o'er the lawn
Her silver mantle spread;
When Damon stay'd behind,
And saunter'd in the grove. "Will ne'er a nymph be kind, And give me love for love? "Oh! those were golden hours, When Love, devoid of cares, In all Arcadia's bowers
Lodg'd swains and nymphs by pairs; But now from wood and plain Flies every sprightly lass;
No joys for me remain,
In shades, or on the grass."
The winged boy draws near ;.
And thus the swain reproves :
"While Beauty revel'd here,
My game lay in the groves;
Why ring the woods with warbling throats? Ye larks, ye linnets, cease your strains; I faintly hear in your sweet notes ·
My Chloe's voice that wakes my pains; Yet why should you your song forbear? Your mates delight your song to hear; But Chloe mine disdains." ·
As thus he melancholy stood,
Dejected as the lonely dove,
Sweet sounds broke gently through the wood. "I feel the sound; my heart-strings move, 'Twas not the nightingale that sung; No. 'Tis my Chloe's sweeter tongue. Hark, hark, what says my love?" "How foolish is the nymph," (she cries) "Who trifles with her lovers's pain! Nature still speaks in woman's eyes,
Our artful lips were made to feign. O Daphnis, Daphnis, 'twas my pride, 'Twas not my heart thy love deny'd; Come back, dear youth, again. "As t'other day my hand he seiz'd,
My blood with thrilling motion flew ;
Sudden I put on looks displeas'd.
And hasty from his hold withdrew.
"Twas fear alone, thou simple swain;
Then hadst thou prest my hand again,
My heart had yielded too!
"Tis true, thy tuneful reed I blam'd, That swell'd thy lip and rosy check; Think not thy skill in song defam'd,
That lip should other pleasures seek:
Much, much thy music I approve;
Yet break thy pipe, for more I love,
Much more to hear thee speak.
My heart forbodes that I'm betray'd,
Daphnis, I fear, is ever gone;
Last night with Delia's dog he play'd,
Love by such trifles first comes on.
Now, now, dear shepherd, come away,
My tongue would now my heart obey,
Ah, Chloe, thou art won!"
The youth stepp'd forth with hasty pace, And found where wishing Chloe lay; Shame sudden lighten'd in her face,
Confus'd, she knew not what to say. At last, in broken words, she cry'd; "To morrow you in vain had try'd, But I am lost to day!"
COQUETTE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
Ar the close of the day,
When the bean-flower and hay
-Breath'd odours in every wind;
Love enliven'd the veins
Of the damsels and swains;
Each glance and each action was kind.
Molly, wanton and free,
Kiss'd, and sate on each knee,
Fond ecstasy swam in her eyes.
See, thy mother is near;
Hark! she calls thee to hear
What age and experience advise. "Hast thou seen the blithe dove Stretch her neck to her love,
All glossy with purple and gold? If a kiss he obtain,
She returns it again:
What follows, you need not be told." "Look ye, mother," she cry'd, "You instruct me in pride,
And men by good-manners are won. She who trifles with all
Is less likely to fall
Than she who but trifles with one."
"Pr'ythee, Molly, be wise,
Lest by sudden surprise
Love should tingle in every vein:
Take a shepherd for life,
And, when once you're a wife,
You safely may trifle again."
Molly smiling reply'd,
"Then I'll soon be a bride;
Old Roger has gold in his chest.
But I thought all you wives
Chose a man for your lives,
And trifled no more with the rest."
OR, THE FAIR MAID OF THE INN.
SAYS my uncle, "I pray you discover
What hath been the cause of your woes; Why you pine and you whine like a lover!"
I have seen Molly Mog of the Rose."
This ballad was written on an inn- keeper's daughter at Oakingham, in Berkshire, who in her youth was a celebrated beauty and toast; she lived to a very advanced age, dying so lately as the month of March, 1766.-See the New Foundling Hospital for Wit, vol. v. p. 45.
"O nephew! your grief is but folly,
In town you may find better prog;
Half a crown there will get you a Molly,
A Molly much better than Mog."
"I know that by wits 'tis recited
That women are best at a clog;
But I am not so easily frighted
From loving of sweet Molly Mog.
"The school-boy's desire is a play-day ;
The school-master's joy is to flog;
The milk-maid's delight is on May-day;
But mine is on sweet Molly Mog.
"Will-a-wisp leads the traveller gadding
Thro' ditch, and thro' quagmire, and bog;
But no light can set me a-madding
Like the eyes of my sweet Molly Mog.
"For guineas in other men's breeches
Your gamesters will pahn and will cog;
But I envy them none of their riches,
So I may win sweet Molly Mog.
"The heart, when half wounded, is changing,
It here and there leaps like a frog;
But my heart can never be ranging,
"Tis so fix'd upon sweet Molly Mog.
"Who follows all ladies of pleasure,
In pleasure is thought but a hog;
All the sex cannot give so good measure
Of joys, as my sweet Molly Mog.
"I feel I'm in love to distraction,
My senses all lost in a fog;
And nothing can give satisfaction
But thinking of sweet Molly Mog.
"A letter when I am inditing,
Comes Cupid, and gives me a jog,
And I fill all the paper with writing
Of nothing but sweet Molly Mog.
"If I would not give up the three Graces,
I wish I were hang'd like a dog,
And at court all the drawing-room faces,
For a glance of my sweet Molly Mog.
"Those faces want nature and spirit,
And seem as cut out of a log:
Juno, Venus, and Pallas's merit,
Unite in my sweet Molly Mog.
"Those who toast all the family royal,
In bumpers of hogan and nog,
Have hearts not more true or more loyal
Than mine to my sweet Molly Mog.
"Were Virgil alive with his Phyllis,
And writing another eclogue;
Both his Phyllis and fair Amaryllis
He'd give up for sweet Molly Mog. "When she smiles on cach guest, like her liquor, Then jealousy sets me agog;
To be sure she's a bit for the vicar,
And so I shall lose Molly Mog."
Or all the girls that e'er were seen,
There's none so fine as Nelly,
For charming face, and shape, and mien,
And what's not fit to tell ye:
Oh! the turn'd neck, and smooth white skin,
Of lovely, dearest Nelly!
For many a swain it well had been
Had she ne'er been at Calai.
For when as Nelly came to France,
(Invited by her cousins)
Across the Tuilleries each glance
Kill'd Frenchmen by whole dozens.
The king, as he at dinner sat,
Did beckon to his hussar,
And bid him bring his tabby cat,
For charming Nell to buss her.
The ladies were with rage provok'd,
To see her so respected;
The men look'd arch, as Nelly strok'd,
And puss her tail erected.
But not a man did look employ,
Except on pretty Nelly;
Then said the duke de Villeroy,
"Ah! qu'elle est bien jolie!"
But who's that great philosopher,
That carefully looks at her?
By his concern, it should appear
The fair-one is his daughter.
"Ma foy!" (quoth then a courtier sly)
"He on his child does leer too:
I wish he has no mind to try
What some papas will here do."
The courtiers all, with one accord,
Broke out in Nelly's praises,
Admir'd her rose, and lys sans farde,
(Which are your termes Françoises).
Then might you see a painted ring
Of dames that stood by Nelly;
She like the pride of all the Spring,
And they, like fleurs de Palais.
In Marli's gardens, and St. Clou,
I saw this charming Nelly,
Where shameless nymphs, expos'd to view,
Stand naked in each allée:
But Venus had a brazen face
Both at Versailles and Meudon,
Or else she had resign'd her place,
And left the stone she stood on.
Were Nelly's figure mounted there,
'Twould put down all th' Italian :
Lord! how those foreigners would stare!
But I should turn Pygmalion:
For, spite of lips, and eyes, and mien,
Me nothing can delight so,
As does that part that lies between
Her left-toe and her right-toe.
And every house, go where you will,
Is haunted by this imp Quadrille, &c.
Sure cards he has for every thing,
Which well court-cards they name,
And, statesman-like, calls in the king,
To help out a bad game;
But, if the parties manage ill,
The king is forc'd to lose codille, &c.
When two and two were met of old,
Though they ne'er meant to marry,
They were in Cupid's books enroll'd,
And call'd a partie quarrée;
But now, meet when and where you will,
A partie quarrée is quadrille, &c.
The commoner, and knight, and peer,
Men of all ranks and fame,
Leave to their wives the only care
To propagate their name;
And well that duty they fulfil,
When the good husband's at quadrille, &c.
When patients lie in piteous case,
In comes th' apothecary;
And to the doctor cries, "Alas!
Non debes quadrillare:"
The patient dies without a pill:
For why?-The doctor's at quadrille, &c.
Should France and Spain again grow loud,
The Muscovite grow louder;
Britain, to curb her neighbours proud,
Would want both ball and powder;
Must want both sword and gun to kill:
For why?-The general's at quadrille, &c.
The king of late drew forth his sword,
(Thank God, 'twas not in wrath!)
And made, of many a 'squire and lord,
An unwash'd knight of Bath:
What are their feats of arms and skill?
They're but nine parties at quadrille, &c.
A party late at Cambray met,
Which drew all Europe's eyes;
'Twas call'd in Post-boy and Gazette
The Quadruple Allies;
But somebody took something ill,
So broke this party at quadrille, &c.
And now God save this noble realm,
And God save eke Hanover;
And God save those who hold the helm,
When as the king goes over;
But let the king go where he will,
His subjects must play at quadrille,
Quadrille, quadrille, &c.
My passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad;
Drunk as a piper all day long,
Or like a March-hare mad.
Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For, though as drunk as David's sow,
I love her still the better.