And act henceforth with Heart and Hand,
Oppose the Sons of Bonner;
I lov'd my King and serv'd my Land,
When I was, &c.
For Bounty, Love and large Relief,
For Noble Conversation;
For easing the poor Widows Grief,
In Times of Lamentation:
For House of Hospitality,
I'll challenge any Donor;
There's few or none that can outvey,
King Henry's Man of Honour.
A SONG, Set by Mr. FRANK.
ICKLE Bliss, fantastick Treasure,
Love how soon, how soon,
How soon thy Joys, are past?
Since we soon must lose the Pleasure,
Oh! 'twere better ne'er to tast:
Gods! How sweet would be possessing,
Did not Time its Charms destroy;
Or could Lovers with the Blessing,
Lose the Thoughts of Cupid's Joy:
Lose the Thoughts, the Thoughts,
The Thoughts of Cupid's Joy.
Cruel Thoughts, that pain yet please me,
Ah! no more my rest destroy ;
Shew me still if you would ease me,
Love's Deceits, but not it's Joy:
Gods what kind, yet cruel Powers,
Force my Will to rack my Mind !
Ah! too long we wait for Flowers,
Too, too soon, to fade design'd.
HAT scornful Sylvia's Chains I wear,
The Groves and Streams can tell ;
Those blasted with my Sighs appear,
These with my Tears my Tears, o're-swell.
But Sighs and Tears bring no redress,
And Love that sees, that sees me grieve;
Conspires with Sylvia to oppress,
The Heart he should relieve.
The God that should reward my Pain,
Makes Sylvia more my Foe:
As She encreases in Disdain,
He makes my Passion grow:
And must I, must I still admire,
Those Eyes that cause my Grief?
'Tis just, since I my self conspire
Against my own Relief.
A SONG, Set by Mr. ROBERT KING.
LL own the Young Sylvia is fatally Fair;
All own the Young Sylvia is pretty ;
Confess her good Nature, and easie soft Air,
Nay more, that's She's wanton and witty.
Yet all the keen Arrows at Damon still cast,
Cou'd never, cou'd never, his quiet destroy,
'Till the cunning Coquett, shot me flying at last;
By a Fene say, Fene say, quoy,
By a Fene say, Fene say, quoy..
So tho' the young Sylvia were not very Fair,
Tho' she were but indifferently pretty;
Much wanting Aurelia's, or Cælia's soft Air,
But not the dull sence of the City:
Yet still the dear Creature wou'd please without doubt,
And give me abundance of Joy;
Since all that is missing is plainly made out,
By a Fene say, Fene say quoy.
A SONG, Set by Mr. FRANK.
Swain in despair,
Cryed Women ne'er trust,
Alass they are all
Unkind or unjust.
A Nymph who was by,
Soon thus did reply ;
The Men we all find
More false and unkind.
Except me he cryed,
And me She replyed,
Then try me said he,
I dare not said she :
The Swain did pursue,
Each alter'd their Mind :
She vow'd He was true,
He swore She was kind.
A SONG. Set by Mr. AKEROVDE.
O'as me poor Lass! what mun I do?
Gin I did my bonny Sawney slight,
He now gangs a blither Lass to woo,
And I alene poor Lass ligs ev'ry Night.
Curse on Fickleness and Pride,
By which we silly Women are undone :
What my Sawney begg'd and I deny'd
Alass! I long to grant, but now he's gone.
When he was kind I made a Strife,
Yet I then deny'd with mickle Woe; For he su'd as gin, he begg'd for Life,
And almost dy'd poor Lad! when I said no : Well I keen'd, he woo'd to wed,
Yet fear'd to own, I lov'd the canny Loon; Ah would he have stay'd he might have sped, Waa's me! why would my Sawney gang so soon.
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