Ceafe, 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 tempefts in despair;
But what's the lofs of treasure,
To lofing of my dear?
Should you fome coaft be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you fo.
How can they say that mature
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 fhe for her dear; Repay'd each blast with fighing, Each billow with a tear; When o'er the white wave stooping,

His floating corpse she spy'd;

Then, like a lily drooping,

She bow'd her head, and dy'd.

THE LADY'S LAMENTATION.

A BALLAD.

PHYLLIDA, that lov'd to dream
In the grove, or by the stream;
Sigh'd on velvet pillow.
What alas! fhould 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 affemblies then?
There, 'tis true, we fee more men ;

But much fewer lovers.

Oh, how chang'd the profpect grows!
Flocks and herds to fops and beaux,
Coxcombs without number!
Moon and ftars that fhone fo bright,
To the torch and waxen light,
And whole nights at ombre.

Pleafant 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 fay, that prompts the vain,
Heightens defamation.

Must I live 'twixt fpite and fear,
Every day grow handfomer,

Thus the fair to fighs gave way,
Her empty purfe befide her lay.
Nymph, ah, cease thy forrow.
Though curft fortune frown to-night,
This odious town can give delight,
If you win to-morrow.

DAMON AND CUPID,
A SONG.

THE fun was now withdrawn,
The shepherds home were fped;
The moon wide o'er the lawn
Her filver mantle spread;
When Damon ftay'd behind,

And faunter'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 fwains and nymphs by pairs; But now from wood and plain Flies every fprightly lafs; No joys for me remain,

In fhades, or on the grass. The winged boy draws near,

And thus the fwain reproves: While beauty revel'd here,

My game lay in the groves; At court I never fail

To scatter round my arrows; Men fall as thick as hail,

And maidens love like fparrows. Then, fwain, if me you need,

Straight lay your sheep-hook down; Throw by your oaten reed,

And hafte away to town.

So well I'm known at court,
None afks where Cupid dwells;
But readily refort

To Bellenden's or Lepell's.

DAPHNIS AND CHLOE.

A SONG.

DAPHNIS flood penfive in the fhade,
With arms acrofs, and head reclin'd;
Pale looks accus'd the cruel maid,

And fighs reliev'd his love-fick mind:
His tuneful pipe all broken lay;
Looks, fighs, and actions, feem'd to say,
My Chloe is unkind.

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 fong forbear? Your mates delight your fong to hear; But Chloe mine difdains.

As thus he melancholy stood,

Dejected as the lonely dove,

Sweet founds broke gently through the wood.

'Twas not the nightingale that fung; No. 'Tis my Chloe's fweeter tongue. Hark, hark, what says my love? How foolish is the nymph (fhe cries) Who trifles with her lover'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 difpleas'd,

And hafty from his hold withdrew. 'Twas fear alone, thou fimple fwain; Then hadft thou preft my hand again, My heart had yielded too!

'Tis true, thy tuneful reed I blam'd,

That fwell'd thy lip and rofy cheek; Think not thy skill in fong defam'd,

That lip fhould other pleasures feck 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; Laft night with Delia's dog he play'd, Love by fuch trifles first comes on. Now, now, dear fhepherd, come away, My tongue would now my heart obey. Ah, Chloe, thou art won!

The youth stepp'd forth with hafty pace, And found where wishing Chloe lay Shame fudden lighten'd in her face,

Confus'd, the knew not what to say. At last, in broken words, the cry'd; To-morrow you in vain had try'd, But I am loft to-day!

THE COQUETTE MOTHER AND

DAUGHTER.

A SONG.

At the close of the day,
When the bean-flower and hay
Breath'd odours in every wind;

Love enliven❜d the veins

Of the damfels and swains;

Each glance and each action was kind.

Molly, wanton and free,
Kifs'd, and fat on each knee,

Fond ecftafy fwam in her eyes.
See, thy mother is near ;
Hark! the calls thee to hear

What age and experience advise.
Haft thou feen the blithe dove
Stretch her neck to her love,

All gloffy with purple and gold? If a kifs he obtain,

She returns it aga

Look ye, mother, fhe cry'd,
You inftruct me in pride,

And men by good manners are won. She who trifles with all

Is lefs likely to fall

Than the who but trifles with one.
Pr'ythee, Molly, be wife,
Left by fudden surprise

Love fhould tingle in every vein':
Take a fhepherd for life,
And when once you're a wife,
You fafely may trifle again.
Molly fmiling reply'd,
Then I'll foon be a bride;

Old Roger has gold in his cheft.
But I thought all you wives
Chofe a man for your lives,

And trifled no more with the rest.
MOLLY MOG:

Or, the Fair Maid of the Inn. A Ballad *.
SAYS my uncle, I pray difcover

What hath been the cause of your woes;
Why you pine and you whine like a lever!
-I have feen Molly Mog of the Rose.
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 beft at a clog;
But I am not so easily frighted

From loving of fweet Molly Mog.
The fchool-boy's defire is a play-day;
The fchoolmaster's joy is to flog;
The milk-maid's delight is on May-day;
But mine is on fweet Molly Mog.
Will-a-wifp leads the traveller gadding
[bog:
Through ditch, and through quagmire, and
But no light can fet me a-madding

Like the eyes of my fweet Molly Mog.
For guineas in other men's breeches
Your gamefters will palm and will cog;
But I envy them none of their riches,
So I may win fweet 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 fo fix'd upon fweet Molly Mog.
Who follows all ladies of pleasure,

In pleasure is thought but a hog;
All the fex cannot give fo good measure
Of joys, as my fweet Molly Mog.
I feel I'm in love to distraction,
My fenfes all loft in a fog;
And nothing can give fatisfaction,
But thinking of fweet Molly Mog.

* This ballad was written on an inn-keeper's datħ ter at Oakingbam in Berkshire, abo in her youto mai₫ celebrated beauty and toaft: fee lived 19 a wor, atuar teď

A letter when I am inditing,

Comes Cupid and gives me a jog,
And I fill all the paper with writing

Of nothing but fweet 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 fweet Molly Mog.
Those faces want nature and fpirit,
And feem 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 fweet Molly Mog.
Were Virgil alive with his Phyllis,
And writing another eclogue;
Both his Phyllis and fair Amaryllis

He'd give up for fweet Molly Mog.
When the smiles on each gueft, like her liquor,
Then jealousy fets me agog;

To be fure fhe's a bit for the Vicar..
And fo I fhall lofe Molly Mog.

BALLAD

Or all the girls that e'er were seen,

There's none fo 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 fwain it well had been

Had the ne'er been at Calai-.

For when as Nelly came to France
(Invited by her cousins),
Acrofs the Tuilleries each glance
Kill'd Frenchmen by whole dozens.
The king, as he at dinner fat,

Did beckon to his huffar,

And bid him bring his tabby cat,
For charming Nell to bufs her.
The ladies were with rage provok'd,
To fee her fo respected;

The men look'd' arch, as Nelly ftrok'd,
And pufs her tail erected.
But not a man did look employ,
Except on pretty Nelly;
Then faid 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 fhould appear,
The fair one is his daughter.
Ma foy (quoth then a courtier fly)
He on his child does leer too:
I wish he has no mind to try

What fome papa's will here do.
The courtiers all, with one accord,
"Broke out in Nelly's praises,
Admir'd her rofe, and lys fans farde,
(Which are your térmes Françoifes),

Then might you fee a painted ring

Of dames that stood by Nelly;
She like the pride of all the fpring,
And they, like Fleurs de Palais.
In Marli's gardens, and St. Clou,
I faw this charming Nelly,
Where fhameless nymphs, expos'd to view,'
Stand naked in each allée :
But Venus had a brazen face

Both at Versailles and Meudon,
Or else the had refign'd her place,
And left the ftone fhe ftood on.
Wêre Nelly's figure mounted there,
'Twould put down all th' Italian :
Lord how thofe foreigners would stare!
But I should turn Pygmalion:
For, fpite of lips, and eyes, and mien,
Me nothing can delight fo,
As does that part that lies between
Her left toe and her right toe.

A BALLAD ON QUADRILLE.
WHEN as corruption hence did go,

And left the nation free;
When Ay faid ay, and No faid no,
Without or place or fee;

Then Satan, thinking things went ill,
Sent forth his fpirit called Quadrille.

Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.

Kings, queens, and knaves, made up his pack,'
And four fair fuits he wore;

His troops they were with red and black
All blotch'd and spotted o'er;
And every houfe, 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, ftatefman-like, calls in the king,
To help out a bad game;
But, if the parties manage ill,
The king is forc'd to lofe 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 cafe,

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 pton,
Would want both ball and powder r
X

Kraft want both fword and gun to kill:
For why? the general's at Quadrille, &c.
The king of late drew forth his fword
(Thank God 'twas not in wrath),
And made, of many a 'fquire 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 Poft-Boy and Gazette
The Quadruple Allies;
But fomebody took fomething ill,
So broke this party at Quadrille, &c.
And now God fave this noble realm,

And God fave eke Hanover;
And God fave those who hold the helm,
When as the king goes over;
But let the king go where he will,
His fubjects must play at Quadrille,
Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.

A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILIES:

My paffion is as mustard strong;

I fit all fober fad ;

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 fow,"
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could fee
The reft of womankind.

Like a ftuck pig I gaping stare,

And eye her o'er and o'er ;
Kean as a rake with fighs and care,

Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
And foft as filk my skin,
My cheeks as fat as butter grown;
But as a great now thin!

I, melancholy as a cat,

And kept awake to weep;
But the, infenfible of that,
Sound as a top can fleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or ftone,
She laughs to fee me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The God of Love at her approach
Is bufy as a bee;

Hearts, found as any bell or roach,

Are fmit and figh like me.
Ay me as thick as hops or hail,
The fine men crowd about her;
But foon as dead as a door nail

Shall I be, if without her.
Straight as my leg her fhape appears;

My heart would be scot-free from caresį.
And lighter than a feather.
As fine as fivepence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the fun is brighter.
As foft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet :

As smooth as glass, as white as curds;
Her pretty hand invites;
Sharp as a needle are her words;
Her wit, like pepper, bites :
Brifk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny dreft;
Sweet as a rofe her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee;
And happy as a king.

Good Lord! how all men envy'd me!
She lov'd like any thing.

But, falfe as hell the, like the wind,
Chang'd, as her fex must do;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru!
Great as an emperor fhould I be,
And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post;

Let us, like burs, together stick,
And warm as any toast.
You'll know me truer than a dyes

And with me better sped;
Flat as a flounder when I lie,

And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun, fhe'll drop a tear,
And figh, perhaps, and wifh,
When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fish.

NEWGATE'S GARLAND

BEING A NEW BALLAD,

Showing bow MR. JONATHAN WILD's Threat was
cut from Ear to Ear with a Penknife, by MR.
BLAKE, alias BLUESKIN, the bold Highwayman,
as he flood at bis Trial in the Old-Bailey, 1725.
To the Tune of" The Cut-purse."
YE gallants of Newgate, whofe fingers are nice,
In diving in pockets, or cogging of dice;
Ye fharpers fo rich, who can buy off the noofe;
Ye honefter poor rogues, who die in your fhoes;
Attend and draw near,

[ear;

Good news you shall hear, How Jonathan's throat was cut from ear to How Bluefkin's sharp penknife hath set you at

cafe,

Defigned for the Paftoral Tragedy of Dione. THERE HERE was a time (O were thofe days renew'd!) Ere tyrant-laws had woman's will fubdued; Then nature rul'd; and love, devoid of art, Spoke the confenting language of the heart. Love uncontroul'd! infipid, poor delight! 'Tis the restraint that whets our appetite. Behold the beafts who range the forefts free; Behold the birds who fly from tree to tree; In their amours fee nature's power appear! And do they love? Yes-one month in the year. Were these the pleafüres of the golden reign? And did free nature thus inftru& the swain? I envy not, ye nymphs, your amorous bowers: Such harmlefs fwains!-I'm ev'n content with

ours.

But yet there's fomething in these fylvan scenes,
That tells our fancy what the lover means.
Name but the moffy bank, and moon-light grove,
Is there a heart that does not beat with love?
To-night we treat you with fuch country fare:
Then for your lover's fake our author fpare.
He draws no Hemikirk boors, or home-bred
clowns,

But the foft fhepherds of Arcadia's downs.

When Paris on the three his judgment pafs'd; I hope you'll own the fhepherd fhow'd his tafte: And Jove, all know, was a good judge of beauty, Who made the nymph Califto break her duty; Then was the country-nymph no aukward thing. See what flrange revolutions time can bring! Yet ftill methinks an author's fate I dread, Were it not fafer beaten paths to tread Of tragedy; than o'er wide heaths to stray, And fecking ftrange adventures lose his way ?

No trumpet's clangour makes his heroine flart,
And tears the foldier from her bleeding heart.
He, foolish bard! nor pomp nor fhow regards.
Without the witness of a hundred guards
His lovers figh their vows.-If fleep fhould take ye,
He has no battle, no loud drum to wake ye.
What, no fuch fhifts? there's danger in't, 'tis true;
Yet fpare him, as he gives you fomething new.

A CONTEMPLATION ON NIGHT.
WHETHER amid the gloom of night I stray,
Or my glad eyes enjoy revolving day,
Still nature's various face informs my fenfe,
Of an all-wife, all-powerful Providence.

When the gay fun firft breaks the fhades of night
And ftrikes the distant eaftern hills with light,
Colour returns, the plains their livery wear,
And a bright verdure clothes, the smiling year;
The blooming flowers with opening beauties glow,
And grazing flocks their milky fleeces fhow;
The barren cliffs with chalky fronts arife,
And a pure azure arches o'er the skies.
But when the gloomy reign of night returns,
Stript of her fading pride all nature mourns:
The trees no more their wonted verdure boast,
But weep in dewy tears their beauty lost:
No diftant landscapes draw our curious eyes;
Wrapt in night's robe the whole creation lies...
Yet Aill, cv'n now, while darknefs clothes the land
We view the traces of th' Almighty hand;
Millions of stars in heaven's wide vault appear,
And with new glories hangs the boundless sphere f
The filver moon her western couch forfakes,
And o'er the skies her nightly circle makes;
Her folid globe beats back the funny rays,
And to the world her borrow'd light repay

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