My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch,

As soon as text is named:

I leave the church in sermon time,
And slink away to Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
When Christmas comes about again,
Oh! then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up, and, box and all,

I'll give it to my honey;

And would it were ten thousand pound,
I'd give it all to Sally :
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master, and the neighbors all,
Make game of me and Sally;
And, but for her, I'd better be

A slave, and row a galley.

But, when my seven long years are out, O then I'll marry Sally:

O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,But not in our alley.

|Dear to the mother's fluttering heart
The genial brood must be;

But not so dear, the thousandth part,
As Delia is to me.

The roses that my brow surround
Were natives of the dale;
Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,
Before their sweets grew pale!
My vital bloom would thus be froze,
If, luckless, torn from thee;
For what the root is to the rose,
My Delia is to me.

Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow,
So white the beauteous pair;

The birds on Delia I'll bestow,

They're, like her bosom, fair! When, in their chaste connubial love, My secret wish she'll see;

Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,

May Delia share with me.

20. Song. AKENSIDE,

THE shape alone let others prize,

The features of the fair;

A KNAVE's a knave,
Though ne'er so brave,

Though diamonds round him shine;
What though he's great,
Takes mighty state,

And thinks himself divine?
His ill-got wealth
Can't give him health,
Or future ills prevent:
An honest tar
Is richer far,
If he enjoys content.

A soul sincere

Scorns fraud or fear,
Within itself secure ;
For vice will blast,
But virtue last

While truth and time endure.
Blow high, blow low,

Frown fate or foe,

He scorns to tack about;

But to his trust

Is strictly just,

And nobly stems it out.

$ 19. Delia. A Pastoral. CUNNINGHAM.
THE gentle swan, with graceful pride,
Her glossy plumage laves,
And, sailing down the silver tide,
Divides the whispering waves:
The silver tide, that wandering flows,
Sweet to the bird must be !

But not so sweet, blithe Cupid knows,
As Delia is to me.

A parent-bird, in plaintive mood,
On yonder fruit-tree sung,

And still the pendent nest she view'd
That held her callow young:

And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, and iv'ry arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win:
Give me an animated form,

That speaks a mind within:

A face where awful honor shines,
Where sense and sweetness move,
And angel innocence refines

The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame,
Without whose vital aid

Unfinish'd all her features seem,

And all her roses dead.

But, ah! where both their charms unite, How perfect is the view,

With ev'ry image of delight,

With graces ever new!

Of pow'r to charm the greatest woe,
The wildest rage control;
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,
And rapture through the soul.
Their pow'r but faintly to express
All language must despair;
But go, behold Arpasia's face,
And read it perfect there.

§ 21. Song. From the Lapland Tongue. STEELL.

THOU rising sun, whose gladsome ray
Invites my fair to rural play,
Dispel the mist, and clear the skies,
And bring my Orra to my eyes.
O, were I sure my dear to view,

I'd climb that pine-tree's topmost bough,
Aloft in air that quiv'ring plays,
And round and round for ever gaze.

My Orra Moor, where art thou laid ?
What wood conceals my sleeping maid?
Fast by the roots, enrag'd, I'd tear
The trees that hide my promis'd fair.
O could I ride on clouds and skies,
Or on the raven's pinions rise!
Ye storks, ye swans, a moment stay,
And waft a lover on his way!

My bliss too long my bride denies :
Apace the wasting summer flies:
Nor yet the wintry blasts I fear,

Nor storms, nor night, shall keep me here.
What may for strength with stee! compare?
O, Love has fetters stronger far!
By bolts of steel are limbs confin'd,
But cruel Love enchains the mind.
No longer, then, perplex thy breast;
When thoughts torment, the first are best;
'Tis mad to go, 'tis death to stay:
Away to Orra, haste away!

§ 22. Song. From the Lapland Tongue. STEELE.

HASTE, my rain-deer, and let us nimbly go Our am'rous journey through this dreary

waste:

Haste, my rain-deer! still, still thou art too
slow!
[haste.
Impetuous love demands the lightning's
Around us far the rushy moors are spread :
Soon will the sun withdraw his cheerful ray;
Darkling and tir'd we shall the marshes tread,
No lay unsung to cheat the tedious way.
The wat'ry length of these unjoyous moors
Does all the flow'ry meadows' pride excel;
Through these I fly to her my soul adores;

Ye flow'ry meadows, empty pride, farewell!
Each moment from the charmer I'm confin'd,
My breast is tortur'd with impatient fires;
Fly, my rain-deer, fly swifter than the wind!
Thy tardy feet wing with my fierce desires.
Our pleasing toil will then be soon o'erpaid,
And thou, in wonder lost, shalt view my fair,
Admire each feature of the lovely maid,
Her artless charms, her bloom, her sprightly

air.

But since the good Palemon died,
The chief of shepherds, and their pride,
Now Arno's sons must all give place
To northern men, an iron race.
The taste of pleasure now is o'er;
Thy notes, Lucinda, please no more;
The muses droop, the Goths prevail !
Adieu, the sweets of Arno's vale!

24. Song. The passionate Shepherd to his Love. MARLOW.

COME, live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, or hills and fields,
And all the steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Einbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle :
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:
A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come, live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight, each May morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

$25. Song. The Nymph's Reply to the Shep herd. SIR W. RALEIGH.

Ir all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain of cares to come.
The flow'rs do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reck'ning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these to me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still, breed,
Had joy no date, nor age no need;
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Been as wise, or at least been as merry, as we, He'd have thought better on't, and instead of his brine [wine. Would have fill'd the vast ocean with generous What trafficking then would have been on the main,

That God or nature hath assign'd: Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. Content I live, this is my stay;

I

drinking.

The hot, thirsty sun, then would drive with

more haste,

[nap

Secure in the evening of such a repast;
And when he'd got tipsy would have taken his
With double the pleasure in Thetis's lap.
By the force of his rays, and thus heated with
wine,

Consider how gloriously Phoebus would shine;
What vast exhalations he'd draw up on high,
To relieve the poor earth as it wanted supply.
How happy us mortals, when bless'd with such
rain,

To fill all our vessels, and fill them again! Nay, even the beggar, that has ne'er a dish, Might jump into the river, and drink like a fish.

What mirth and contentment on ev'ry one's

brow,

[plough!

Hob, as great as a prince, dancing after the The birds in the air, as they play on the wing, Although they but sip, would eternally sing. The stars, who, I think, don't to drinking incline,

Would frisk and rejoice at the fume of the wine; And, merrily twinkling, would soon let us

know

That they were as happy as mortals below. Had this been the case, then what had we enjoy'd,

Our spirits still rising, our fancy ne'er cloy'd;
A pox then on Neptune, when 'twas in his pow'r,
To slip, like a fool, such a fortunate hour!
28. Song. SHENSTONE.
ADIEU, ye jovial youths, who join
To plunge old Care in floods of wine;
And, as your dazzled eye-balls roll,
Discern him struggling in the bowl!

Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plenty surfeits oft,

I

see that such as sit aloft And hasty climbers soonest fall:

Mishap doth threaten most of all:
These get with toil, and keep with fear:
Such cares my mind could never bear.
No princely pomp, nor wealthy store,
No force to win a victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a lover's eye:
To none of these I yield as thrall,
For why? my mind despiseth all.
Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet seek no more : >

They are but poor, though much they have ;

And I am rich with little store : They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I lend; they pine, I live. laugh not at another's loss,

I

I grudge not at another's gain; No worldly wave my mind can toss,

I

I brook that is another's bane.
fear no foe, nor fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.
My wealth is health, and perfect ease
My conscience clear, my chief defence
I never seek by bribes to please,

Nor by desert to give offence:
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so, as well as I!
I take no joy in earthly bliss;

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw; For care, I know not what it is;

I fear not Fortune's fatal law. My mind is such as may not move For beauty bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;
I wander not to seek for more;
I like the plain, I climb no hill;

In greatest storms I sit on shore,
And laugh at them that toil in vain
To get what must be lost again.
I kiss not where I wish to kill;

I feign not love where most I hate; I break no sleep to win my will;

I wait not at the mighty's gate; I scorn no poor, I fear no rich; I feel no want, nor have too much. The court ne cart, I like ne loathe:

Extremes are counted worst of all: The golden mean betwixt them both

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall; This is my choice; for why? I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.

30. Song. BEDINGFIELD.

To hug yourself in perfect ease,

What would you wish for more than these?
A healthy, clean, paternal seat,
Well shaded from the summer's heat:
A little parlour-stove, to hold
A constant fire from winter's cold,
Where you may sit and think, and sing,
Far off from court, God bless the king:

Safe from the harpies of the law,
From party-rage, and great man's paw;
Have choice, few friends of your own taste;
A wife agreeable and chaste:

An open, but yet cautious mind,
Where guilty cares no entrance find;
Nor miser's fears, nor envy's spite,
To break the sabbath of the night:
Plain equipage, and temp'rate meals,
Few tailors', and no doctors' bills;
Content to take, as Heaven shall please,
A longer or a shorter lease.

31. Song. The Character of a happy Life. SIR HENRY WOTTON.

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill;
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death:
Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame, or private breath!
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice hath ever understood;
How deepest wounds are giv'n by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good!
Who hath his life from rumors freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great!
Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend;

32. Song. DR. DARLTON.*
NOR on beds of fading flow'rs,
Shedding soon their gaudy pride,
Nor with swains in siren bow'rs,
Will true pleasure long reside.
On awful virtue's hill sublime

Enthron'd sits th' immortal fair:
Who wins her height must patient climb;
The steps are peril, toil, and care.
So from the first did Jove ordain
Eternal bliss for transient pain.

§ 33.

Song.

A Moral Thought.
DR. HAWKESWORTH.

THROUGH groves sequester'd, dark, and still,
Low vales, and mossy cells among,
In silent paths the careless rill

With languid murmurs steals along.
A while it plays with circling sweep,
And ling'ring leaves its native plain;
Then pours impetuous down the steep,
And mingles with the boundless main.
O let my years thus devious glide

Through silent scenes obscurely calm;
Nor wealth nor strife pollute the tide,
Nor honor's sanguinary palm.
When labor tires, and pleasure palls,
Still let the stream untroubled be,
As down the steep of age it falls,
And mingles with eternity.

34. Song. The Blind Boy.
COLLEY CIBBer.t
O SAY what is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
O tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;

I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,

With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know.

* In the Masque of Comus. It seems to be imitated from a passage in the 17th book of Tasso's Jerusalem.

† Written for, and set by, the late celebrated Mr Stanley, organist of St. Andrew, Holborn.