Chapter VI (2)

_Daphne_ my dearest Bitch, _Oh Hone, O Hone_, Who did all Dogs bewitch, _Oh Hone_, &c. Was by a careless Maid, Pox take her for a Jade, In the Night over-laid, _Oh Hone_, &c.

Oh may she never more _Oh Hone_, &c. Sleep quietly, but snore, _Oh Hone_, &c. May never Irish Lad, Sue for her Maiden-head, Until it stinks I Gad, _Oh Hone_, &c.

Oh may she never keep _Oh Hone, Oh Hone_; Her Water in her Sleep, _Oh Hone, Oh Hone_: May never Pence nor Pounds, Come more within the Bounds, Of her Pocket Ad-sounds, _Oh Hone, Oh Hone_.

DAMON _forsaken. Set by Mr._ WROTH.

[Music]

When that young _Damon_ bless'd my Heart,
And in soft Words did move;
How did I hug the pleasing Dart,
And thank'd the God of Love:
_Cupid_, said I, my best lov'd Lamb,
That in my Bosom lives:
To thee, for kindling this dear Flame,
To thee, kind God, I'll give.

But prying Friends o'er-heard my Vow,
And murmur'd in my Ear;
_Damon_ hath neither Flocks nor Plough,
Girl what thou dost beware:
They us'd so long their cursed Art,
And damn'd deluding sham;
That I agreed with them to part,
Nor offer'd up my Lamb.

_Cupid_ ask'd for his Offering,
'Cause I refus'd to pay;
He took my _Damon_ on his Wing,
And carry'd him quite away:
Pitch'd him before _Olinda's_ Charms,
Those Wonders of the Plain;
Commanding her into her Arms,
To take the dearest Swain.

The envy'd Nymph, soon, soon obey'd, And bore away the Prize; 'Tis well she did, for had she stay'd, I'd snatch'd him from her Eyes: My Lamb was with gay Garlands dress'd, The Pile prepar'd to burn; Hoping that if the God appeas'd, My _Damon_ might return.

But oh! in vain he's gone, he's gone,
_Phillis_ he can't be thine;
I by Obedience am undone,
Was ever Fate like mine:
_Olinda_ do, try all thy Charms,
Yet I will have a part;
For whilst you have him in your Arms,
I'll have him in my Heart.

_The Apparition to the Jilted Lover. Set by Mr._ WROTH.

[Music]

Think wretched Mortal, think no more,
How to prolong thy Breath:
For thee there are no Joys in store,
But in a welcome Death:
Then seek to lay thee under Ground,
The Grave cures all Despair;
And healeth every bitter Wound,
Giv'n by th' ungrateful Fair.

How cou'dst thou Faith in Woman think,
Women are _Syrens_ all;
And when Men in Loves Ocean sink,
Take Pride to see 'em fall:
Women were never real yet,
But always truth despise:
Constant to nothing but Deceit,
False Oaths and flattering Lies.

Ah! _Coridon_ bid Life adieu,
The Gods will thee prefer;
Their Gates are open'd wide for you,
But bolted against her:
Do thou be true, you vow'd to Love,
_Phillis_ or Death you'll have;
Now since the Nymph doth perjured prove,
Be just unto the Grave.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Heaven first created Woman to be Kind,
Both to be belov'd, and for to Love;
If you contradict what Heav'n has design'd,
You'll be contemn'd by all the Pow'rs above:
Then no more dispute me, for I am rashly bent,
To subject your Beauty
To kind Nature's Duty,
Let me than salute you by Consent.

Arguments and fair Intreats did I use,
But with her Consent could not prevail;
She the Blessing modestly would still refuse,
Seeming for to slight my amorous Tale:
Sometimes she would cry Sir, prithee Dear be good,
Oh Sir, pray Sir, why Sir?
Pray now, nay now, fye Sir,
I would sooner die Sir, than be rude.

I began to treat her then another way,
Modestly I melted with a Kiss;
She then blushing look'd like the rising Day,
Fitting for me to attempt the Bliss:
I gave her a fall Sir, she began to tear,
Crying she would call Sir,
As loud as she could baul Sir,
But is prov'd as false, Sir, as she's Fair.

RALPH'S _going to the Wars._

[Music]

To the Wars I must alass,
Though I do not like the Game,
For I hold him to be an Ass,
That will lose his Life for Fame:
_For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay,
Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how._

When the Bow, Bill, Zword and Dagger, Were us'd all in vighting; Ch've heard my Father swear and swagger, That it was but a Flea-biting: _But these Guns_, &c.

Ise would vight with the best of our Parish, And play at Whisters with _Mary_; Cou'd thump the Vootball, yerk the Morrie, And box at Visticuffs with any: _But these Guns_, &c.

Varewel _Dick_, _Tom_, _Ralph_ and _Hugh_,
My Maypoles make all heretofore;
Varewel _Doll_, _Kate_, _Zis_ and _Zue_,
For I shall never zee you more:
_For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay,
Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how._

_A_ SONG _in Praise of Punch._

[Music]

Come fill up the Bowl with the Liquor that fine is, And much more Divine is, Than now a-days Wine is, with all their Art, None here can controul: The Vintner despising, tho' Brandy be rising, 'Tis Punch that must chear the Heart: The Lovers complaining, 'twill cure in a trice, And _Caelia_ disdaining, shall cease to be nice, _Come fill up the Bowl_, &c.

Thus soon you'll discover, the cheat of each Lover, When free from all Care you'll quickly find, As Nature intended 'em willing and kind: _Come fill up the Bowl_, &c.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Bonny _Peggy Ramsey_ that any Man may see, And bonny was her Face, with a fair freckel'd Eye, Neat is her Body made, and she hath good Skill, And square is her Wethergig made like a Mill: _With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_ _Bonny_ Peggy Ramsey _she gives weel her Mill._

_Peggy_ to the Mill is gone to grind a Bowl of Mault, The Mill it wanted Water, and was not that a fault; Up she pull'd her Petticoats and piss'd into the Dam, For six Days and seven Nights she made the Mill to gang; _With a hey_, &c.

Some call her _Peggy_, and some call her _Jean_, But some calls her Midsummer, but they all are mista'en; For _Peggy_ is a bonny Lass, and grinds well her Mill, For she will be Occupied when others they lay still: _With a hey_, &c.

_Peg_, thee and Ise grin a poke, and we to War will leanes, Ise lay thee flat upon thy Back and then lay to the steanes; Ise make hopper titter totter, haud the Mouth as still, When twa sit, and eane stand, merrily grind the Mill: _With a hey_, &c.

Up goes the Clap, and in goes the Corn, Betwixt twa rough steans _Peggy_ not to learn; With a Dam full of Water that she holdeth still, To pour upon the Clap for burning of the Mill: _With a hey_, &c.

Up she pull'd the Dam sure and let the Water in, The Wheel went about, and the Mill began to grind: The spindle it was hardy, and the steanes were they well pickt, And the Meal fell in the Mill Trough, and ye may all come lick: _With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_ _Bonny_ Peggy Ramsey _she gives weel her Mill._

_A_ SONG.

_Writ by the Famous Mr._ NAT. LEE.

_Philander_ and _Sylvia_, a gentle soft Pair, Whose business was loving, and kissing their Care; In a sweet smelling Grove went smiling along, 'Till the Youth gave a vent to his Heart with his Tongue: Ah _Sylvia_! said he, (and sigh'd when he spoke) Your cruel resolves will you never revoke? No never, she said, how never, he cry'd, 'Tis the Damn'd that shall only that Sentence abide.

She turn'd her about to look all around, Then blush'd, and her pretty Eyes cast on the Ground; She kiss'd his warm Cheeks, then play'd with his Neck, And urg'd that his Reason his Passion would check: Ah _Philander_! she said, 'tis a dangerous Bliss, Ah! never ask more and I'll give thee a Kiss; How never? he cry'd, then shiver'd all o'er, No never, she said, then tripp'd to a Bower.

She stopp'd at the Wicket, he cry'd let me in, She answer'd, I wou'd if it were not a sin; Heav'n sees, and the Gods will chastise the poor Head Of _Philander_ for this; straight Trembling he said, Heav'n sees, I confess, but no Tell-tales are there, She kiss'd him and cry'd, you're an Atheist my Dear; And shou'd you prove false I should never endure: How never? he cry'd, and straight down he threw her.

Her delicate Body he clasp'd in his Arms, He kiss'd her, he press'd her, heap'd charms upon charms; He cry'd shall I now? no never, she said, Your Will you shall never enjoy till I'm dead: Then as if she were dead, she slept and lay still, Yet even in Death bequeath'd him a smile: Which embolden'd the Youth his Charms to apply, Which he bore still about him to cure those that die.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Your Hay it is mow'd, and your Corn is reap'd,
Your Barns will be full, and your Hovels heap'd;
Come, my Boys come,
Come, my Boys come,
And merrily roar our Harvest home:
Harvest home,
Harvest home,
And merrily roar our Harvest home.
_Come, my Boys come_, &c.

We ha' cheated the Parson, we'll cheat him agen,
For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten:
One in Ten,
One in Ten,
For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten,
_One in Ten_, &c.

For prating too long, like a Book learnt Sot,
'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot:
Burnt to Pot,
Burnt to Pot,
'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot.
_Burnt to Pot_, &c.

We'll toss off our Ale till we cannot stand,
And hey for the Honour of old _England_;
Old _England_,
Old _England_,
And hey for the Honour of old _England_,
_Old_ England, _&c._

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

I prithee send me back my Heart,
Since I cannot have thine:
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should you have mine.

Yet now I think on't, let it be,
To send it me is vain;
Thou hast a Thief in either Eye,
Will steal it back again.

Why should two Hearts in one Breast be,
And yet not be together;
Or Love, where is thy Sympathy,
If thou our Hearts do sever?

But Love is such a Mystery,
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I am best resolv'd,
Then I am most in Doubt.

Then farewel Care, then farewel Woe,
I will no longer pine;
But I'll believe I have her Heart,
As well as she hath mine.

BACCHUS _turn'd Doctor. The Words by_ BEN. JOHNSON.

[Music]

Let Soldiers fight for Pay and Praise,
And Money be Misers wish;
Poor Scholars study all their Days,
And Gluttons glory in their Dish:
_'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_
_Therefore give us chearing Bowls._

Let Minions marshal in their Hair,
And in a Lover's lock delight;
And artificial Colours wear,
We have the Native Red and White.
_'Tis Wine_, &c.

Your Pheasant, Pout, and Culver Salmon,
And how to please your Palates think:
Give us a salt _Westphalia-Gammon_,
Not Meat to eat, but Meat to drink.
_'Tis Wine_, &c.

It makes the backward Spirits brave,
That lively, that before was dull;
Those grow good Fellows that are grave,
And kindness flows from Cups brim full,
_'Tis Wine_, &c.

Some have the Ptysick, some the Rhume,
Some have the Palsie, some the Gout;
Some swell with Fat, and some consume,
But they are sound that drink all out.
_'Tis Wine_, &c.

Some Men want Youth, and some want Health,
Some want a Wife, and some a Punk;
Some Men want Wit, and some want Wealth,
But he wants nothing that is drunk.
_'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_
_Therefore give us chearing Bowls._

JENNY _making Hay._

[Music]

Poor _Jenny_ and I we toiled,
In a long Summer's Day;
Till we were almost foiled,
With making of the Hay;
Her Kerchief was of Holland clear,
Bound low upon her Brow;
Ise whisper'd something in her Ear,
_But what's that to you?_

Her Stockings were of Kersey green,
Well stitcht with yellow Silk;
Oh! sike a Leg was never seen,
Her Skin as white as Milk:
Her Hair as black as any Crow,
And sweet her Mouth was too;
Oh _Jenny_ daintily can mow,
_But_, &c.

Her Petticoats were not so low,
As Ladies they do wear them;
She needed not a Page I trow,
For I was by to bear them:
Ise took them up all in my Hand,
And I think her Linnen too;
Which made me for to make a stand;
_But_, &c.

King _Solomon_ had Wives enough,
And Concubines a Number;
Yet Ise possess more happiness,
And he had more of Cumber;
My Joys surmount a wedded Life,
With fear she lets me mow her;
A Wench is better than a Wife,
_But_, &c.

The Lilly and the Rose combine,
To make my _Jenny_ fair;
There's no Contentment sike as mine;
I'm almost void of Care:
But yet I fear my _Jenny's_ Face,
Will cause more Men to woe;
Which if she should, as I do fear,
_Still, what is that to you?_

_The Knotting_ SONG. _The Words by Sir_ CHARLES SYDNEY.

[Music]

Hears not my _Phillis_ how the Birds, Their feather'd Mates salute: They tell their Passion in their Words, Must I alone, must I alone be mute: Phillis _without a frown or smile,_ _Sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while._

The God of Love in thy bright Eyes, Does like a Tyrant Reign; But in thy Heart a Child he lies, Without a Dart or Flame. _Phillis_, &c.

So many Months in silence past, And yet in raging Love; Might well deserve one word at last, My Passion should approve. _Phillis_, &c.

Must then your faithful Swain expire, And not one look obtain; Which to sooth his fond desire, Might pleasingly explain. _Phillis_, &c.

_The_ FRENCH KING _in a foaming Passion for the loss of his Potent Army in the_ NETHERLANDS, _which were Routed by his Grace the Duke of_ MARLBOROUGH.

[Music]

Old _Lewis le Grand_, He raves like a Fury, And calls for _Mercury_; Quoth he, if I can, I'll finish my Days; For why should I live? Since the Fates will not give One affable smile: Great _Marlborough_ Conquers, Great _Marlborough_ Conquers, I'm ruin'd the while.

The Flower of _France_, And Troops of my Palace Which march'd from _Versales_ Who vow'd to Advance, With Conquering Sword, Are cut, hack'd and hew'd, I well may conclude, They're most of them Slain: Oh! what will become of, Oh! what will become of, My Grand-Son in _Spain_.

My fortify'd Throne, Propt up by Oppression, Must yield at Discretion, For needs must I own, My Glory decays: Bold _Marlborough_ comes With ratling Drums, And thundering Shot, He drives all before him, He drives all before him, Oh! Where am I got?

He pushes for Crowns, And slays my Commanders, And Forces in _Flanders_; Great Capital Towns, For _CHARLES_ has declar'd: These things like a Dart, Has pierced my Heart, And threatens my Death; Here do I lye sighing, Here do I lye sighing, And Panting for Breath.

This passionate Grief, Draws on my Diseases, Which fatally ceases My Spirits in chief, A fit of the Gout, The Gravel and Stone, I have 'tis well known, At this horrid News, Of _Marlborough's_ Triumph, Of _Marlborough's_ Triumph, All Battles I lose.

Wherever he comes, He is bold and Victorious, Successful and glorious, My two Royal Thumbs With anguish I bite: To hear his Success; Yet nevertheless, My passion's in vain: I pity my Darling, I pity my Darling, Young _Philip_ in _Spain_.

I am out of my Wits, If e'er I had any; My Foes they are many, Which plagues me by fits, In _Flanders_ and _Spain_: I'm sick at my Heart, To think we must part, With what we enjoy'd, Towns, Castles, are taken, Towns, Castles, are taken, My Troops are destroy'd.

I am I declare, In a weak Condition, Go call my Physician, And let him prepare Some comfort with speed, Without all delay, Assist me I pray, And hear my Complaint, A Dram of the Bottle, A Dram of the Bottle, Or else I shall faint.

Should I slip my Breath, At this dreadful Season, I think it but Reason, I should lay my Death, To the daring Foes, Whose Fire and Smoak, Has certainly broke, The Heart in my Breast: Oh! bring me a Cordial, Oh! bring me a Cordial, And lay me to Rest.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Captain_ PACK.

[Music]

Would you be a Man in Fashion?
Would you lead a Life Divine?
Take a little Dram of Passion, (a little dram of Passion)
In a lusty Dose of Wine
If the Nymph has no Compassion,
Vain it is to sigh and groan:
Love was but put in for Fashion,
Wine will do the Work alone.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ THO. FARMER.

[Music]

Though the Pride of my Passion fair _Sylvia_ betrays, And frowns at the Love I impart; Though kindly her Eyes twist amorous Rays, To tye a more fortunate Heart: Yet her Charms are so great, I'll be bold in my Pain, His Heart is too tender, Too tender, that's struck with Disdain.

Still my Heart is so just to my Passionate Eyes, It dissolves with Delight while I gaze: And he that loves on, though _Sylvia_ denies, His Love but his Duty obeys: I no more can refrain her neglects to pursue, Than the force, the force Of her Beauty can cease to subdue.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

When first I fair _Celinda_ knew,
Her Kindness then was great:
Her Eyes I cou'd with Pleasure view,
And friendly Rays did meet:
In all Delights we past the time,
That could Diversion move;
She oft would kindly hear me Rhime
Upon some others Love:
_She oft would kindly hear me Rhime,_
_Upon some others Love._

But ah! at last I grew too bold,
Prest by my growing Flame;
For when my Passion I had told,
She hated ev'n my Name:
Thus I that cou'd her Friendship boast,
And did her Love pursue;
And taught Contentment at the cost,
Of Love and Friendship too.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ FISHBURNE.

[Music]

Long had _Damon_ been admir'd,
By the Beauties of the Plain;
Ev'ry Breast warm Love inspir'd,
For the proper handsome Swain:
The choicest Nymph _Sicilia_ bred,
Was won by his resistless Charms:
Soft Looks, and Verse as smooth, had led
And left the Captive in his Arms.

But our _Damon's_ Soul aspires,
To a Goddess of his Race;
Though he sues with chaster Fires,
This his Glories does deface:
The fatal News no sooner blown
In Whispers up the Chesnut Row;
The God _Sylvanus_ with a Frown,
Blasts all the Lawrels on his Brow.

Swains be wise, and check desire
In it's soaring, when you'll woe:
_Damon_ may in Love require
_Thestyles_ and _Laura_ too:
When Shepherds too ambitious are,
And Court _Astrea_ on a Throne;
Like to the shooting of a Star,
They fall, and thus their shining's gone.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ FISHBURN.

[Music]

Pretty _Floramel_, no Tongue can ever tell,
The Charms that in thee dwell;
Those Soul-melting Pleasures,
Shou'd the mighty _Jove_ once view, he'd be in Love,
And plunder all above,
To rain down his Treasure:
Ah! said the Nymph in the Shepherd's Arms,
Had you half so much Love as you say I have Charms;
There's not a Soul, created for Man and Love,
More true than _Floramel_ wou'd prove,
I'd o'er the World with thee rove.

Love that's truly free, had never Jealousie,
But artful Love may be
Both doubtful and wooing;
Ah! dear Shepherdess, ne'er doubt, for you may guess,
My Heart will prove no less,
Than ever endless loving:
Then cries the Nymph, like the Sun thou shalt be,
And I, like kind Earth, will produce all to thee;
Of ev'ry Flower in Love's Garden I'll Off'rings pay
To my Saint. Nay then pray
Take not those dear Eyes away.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ ROBERT KING.

[Music]

By shady Woods and purling Streams, I spend my Life in pleasing Dreams; And would not for the World be thought To change my false delightful Thought: For who, alas! can happy be, That does the Truth of all things see? _For who, alas! can happy be,_ _That does the Truth of all things see._

_A_ SONG. _Sett by Mr._ HENRY PURCELL.

[Music]

In _Chloris_ all soft Charms agree,
Enchanting Humour pow'rful Wit;
Beauty from Affectation free,
And for Eternal Empire fit:
Where-e'er she goes, Love waits her Eyes,
The Women Envy, Men adore;
Tho' did she less the Triumph Prize,
She wou'd deserve the Conquest more.

But Vanity so much prevails,
She begs what else none can deny her;
And with inviting treach'rous Smiles
Gives hopes which ev'n prevent desire:
Reaches at every trifling Heart,
Grows warm with ev'ry glimm'ring Flame:
And common Prey so deads her Dart,
It scarce can wound a noble Game.

I could lye Ages at her Feet,
Adore her careless of my Pain;
With tender Vows her Rigour meet,
Despair, love on, and not complain:
My Passion from all change secur'd,
Favours may rise, no Frown controuls;
I any Torment can endure,
But hoping with a crowd of Fools.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ THO. FARMER.

[Music]

When busie Fame o'er all the Plain,
_Velinda's_ Praises rung;
And on their Oaten Pipes each Swain
Her matchless Beauty sung:
The Envious Nymphs were forc'd to yield
She had the sweetest Face;
No emulous disputes were held,
But for the second place.

Young _Coridon_, whose stubborn Heart
No Beauty e'er could move;
But smil'd at _Cupid's_ Bow and Dart,
And brav'd the God of Love:
Would view this Nymph, and pleas'd at first,
Such silent Charms to see:
With Wonder gaz'd, then sigh'd, and curs'd
His Curiosity.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ FISHBURNE.

[Music]

Why am I the only Creature,
Must a ruin'd Love pursue;
Other Passions yield to Nature,
Mine there's nothing can subdue:
Not the Glory of Possessing,
Monarch wishes gave me ease,
More and more the mighty Blessings
Did my raging Pains encrease.

Nor could Jealousie relieve me,
Tho' it ever waited near;
Cloath'd in gawdy Pow'r to grieve me,
Still the Monster would appear:
That, nor Time, nor Absence neither,
Nor Despair removes my Pain;
I endure them all together,
Yet my Torments still remain.

Had alone her matchless beauty,
Set my amorous Heart on Fire,
Age at last would do its Duty,
Fuel ceasing, Flames expire.
But her Mind immortal grows,
Makes my Love immortal too;
Nature ne'er created Faces,
Can the Charms of Souls undoe.

And to make my Loss the greater,
She laments it as her own;
Could she scorn me, I might hate her,
But alas! she shews me none:
Then since Fortune is my Ruin,
In Retirement I'll Complain;
And in rage for my undoing,
Ne'er come in its Power again.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

_Laurinda_, who did love Disdain, For whom had languish'd many a Swain: Leading her bleating Flocks to drink, She 'spy'd upon a River's brink A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare, How much he lov'd, but lov'd not her.

At first she laugh'd, but gaz'd a while, Which soon it lessen'd to a smile; Thence to Surprize and Wonder came, Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame: Then cry'd she out, Ah! now I prove Thou art a God most mighty _Jove_.

She would have spoke, but shame deny'd, And bid her first consult her Pride; But soon she found that aid was gone, For _Jove_, alass! had left her none: Ah! now she burns! but 'tis too late, For in his Eyes she reads her Fate.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Fair _Caelia_ too fondly contemns those Delights, Wherewith gentle Nature hath soften'd the Nights; If she be so kind to present us with Pow'r, The Fault is our own to neglect the good Hour: Who gave thee this Beauty, ordain'd thou should'st be, As kind to thy Slaves, as the Gods were to thee.

Then _Caelia_ no longer reserve the vain Pride, Of wronging thy self, to see others deny'd; If Love be a Pleasure, alass! you will find, We both are not happy, when both are most kind: But Women, like Priests, do in others reprove, And call that thing Lust, which in them is but Love.

What they thro' their Madness and Folly create, We poor silly Slaves still impute to our Fate; But in such Distempers where Love is the Grief, 'Tis _Caelia_, not Heaven, must give us Relief: Then away with those Titles of Honour and Cause, Which first made us sin, by giving us Laws.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ WILLIAM TURNER.

[Music]

I Lik'd, but never Lov'd before
I saw that charming Face;
Now every Feature I adore,
And doat on ev'ry Grace:
She ne'er shall know that kind desire,
Which her cold Looks denies,
Unless my Heart that's all on Fire,
Should sparkle through my Eyes:
Then if no gentle Glance return,
A silent Leave to speak;
My Heart which would for ever burn,
Alass! must sigh and break.

_A_ SONG _in_ Valentinian.

[Music]

Where would coy _Amyntas_ run, From a despairing Lover's Story? When her Eyes have Conquest won, Why should her Ear refuse the Glory: Shall a Slave, whose Racks constrain, Be forbidden to complain; Let her scorn me, let her Fly me, Let her Looks, her Love deny me: Ne'er shall my Heart yield to despair, Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care, Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care: Much to love, and much to pray, Is to Heav'n the only way.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Pelham Humphreys.

[Music]

A Wife I do hate,
For either she's False, or she's Jealous;
But give me a Mate,
Who nothing will ask us or tell us:
She stands at no Terms,
Nor Chaffers by way of Indenture:
Or Loves for the Farms,
But takes the kind Man at a Venture.

If all prove not right,
Without an Act, Process or Warning,
From Wife for a Night,
You may be divorc'd the next Morning,
Where Parents are Slaves,
Their Brats can't be any other;
Great Wits and great Braves,
Have always a Punk to their Mother.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Tell me ye _Sicilian_ Swains,
Why this Mourning's o'er your Plains;
Where's your usual Melody?
Why are all your Shepherds mad,
And your Shepherdesses sad?
What can the mighty meaning be?
_Chorus._ _Sylvia_ the Glory of our Plains;
_Sylvia_ the Love of all our Swains;
That blest us with her Smiles:
Where ev'ry Shepherd had a Heart,
And ev'ry Shepherdess a Part;
Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle,
Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

When gay _Philander_ left the Plain, The Love, the Life of ev'ry Swain; His Pipe the mournful _Strephon_ took, By some sad Bank and murm'ring Brook: Whilst list'ning Flocks forsook their Food, And Melancholy by him stood; On the cold Ground himself he laid, And thus the Mournful Shepherd play'd.

Farewel to all that's bright and gay, No more glad Night and chearing Day; No more the Sun will gild our Plain, 'Till the lost Youth return again: Then every pensive Heart that now, With Mournful Willow shades his Brow; Shall crown'd with chearful Garlands sing, And all shall seem Eternal Spring.

Say, mighty _Pan_, if you did know, Say all ye rural Gods below; 'Mongst all Youths that grac'd your Plain, So gay so beautiful a Swain: In whose sweet Air and charming Voice, Our list'ning Swains did all Rejoyce; Him only, O ye Gods! restore Your Nymphs, and Shepherds ask no more.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ THO. KINGSLEY.

[Music]

How Happy's the Mortal whose Heart is his own, And for his own Quiet's beholden to none, (_Eccho._ Beholden to none, to none;) That to Love's Enchantments ne'er lendeth an Ear, Which a Frown or a Smile can equally bear, (_Eccho._ Can equally bear, can bear,) Nor on ev'ry frail Beauty still fixes an Eye, But from those sly Felons doth prudently fly, (_Eccho._ Doth prudently, prudently fly, doth fly;) For the Heart that still wanders is pounded at last, And 'tis hard to relieve it when once it is fast, (_Eccho._ When once it is fast, is fast.)

By sporting with Dangers still longer and longer, The Fetters and Chains of the Captive grows stronger; He drills on his Evil, then curses his Fate, And bewails those Misfortunes himself did create: Like an empty Camelion he lives on the Air, And all the Day lingers 'twixt Hope and Despair; Like a Fly in the Candle he sports and he Games, 'Till a Victim in Folly, he dies in the Flames.

If Love, so much talk'd of, a Heresie be, Of all it enslaves few true Converts we see; If hectoring and huffing would once do the Feat, There's few that would fail of a Vict'ry Compleat; But with Gain to come off, and the Tyrant subdue, Is an Art that is hitherto practis'd by few; How easie is Freedom once had to maintain, But Liberty lost is as hard to regain.

This driv'ling and sniv'ling, and chiming in Parts, This wining and pining, and breaking of Hearts; All pensive and silent in Corners to sit, Are pretty fine Pastimes for those that want Wit: When this Passion and Fashion doth so far abuse 'em, It were good the State should for Pendulums use 'em; For if Reason it seize on, and make it give o'er, No Labour can save, or reliev't any more.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Henry Purcell.

[Music]

A Thousand several ways I try'd,
To hide my Passion from your view;
Conscious that I should be deny'd,
Because I cannot Merit you:
Absence, the last and worst of all,
Did so encrease my wretched Pain,
That I return'd, rather to fall
By the swift Fate, by the swift Fate of your Disdain.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

To the Grove, gentle Love, let us be going, Where the kind Spring and Wind all Day are Woing; He with soft sighing Blasts strives to o'er-take her, She would not tho' she flies, have him forsake her, But in circling Rings returning, And in purling Whispers Mourning; She swells and pants, as if she'd say, Fain I would, but dare not stay.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ FISHBURN.

[Music]

Tell me no more of Flames in Love,
That common dull pretence,
Fools in Romances use to move
Soft Hearts of little Sense:
No, _Strephon_, I'm not such a Slave,
Love's banish'd Power to own;
Since Interest and Convenience have
So long usurp'd his Throne.

No burning Hope or cold Despair,
Dull Groves or purling Streams,
Sighing and talking to the Air
In Love's fantastick Dreams,
Can move my Pity or my Hate,
But Satyrist I'll prove,
And all ridiculous create
That shall pretend to Love.

Love was a Monarch once, 'tis true,
And God-like rul'd alone,
And tho' his Subjects were but few,
Their Hearts were all his own;
But since the Slaves revolted are,
And turn'd into a State,
Their Int'rest is their only Care,
And Love grows out of Date.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ FISHBURN.

[Music]

Wealth breeds Care, Love, Hope and Fear; What does Love our Business hear? While _Bacchus_ merry does appear, Fight on and fear no sinking, Charge it briskly to the Brim, 'Till the flying Top-sails swim, We owe the great Discovery to him Of this new World of Drinking.

Grave Cabals that States refine, Mingle their Debates with Wine; _Ceres_ and the God o'th' Wine; Makes every great Commander. Let sober Sots Small-beer subdue, The Wise and valiant Wine does woe; The _Stagyrite_ had the honour to Be drunk with _Alexander_.

Stand to your Arms, and now Advance A Health to the _English_ King of _France_; On to the next a _bon Speranze_, By _Bacchus_ and _Apollo_. Thus in State I lead the Van, Fall in your Place by your right-hand Man, Beat Drum! now March! Dub a dub, ran dan, He's a _Whig_ that will not follow.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Fishburn.

[Music]

Tho' Fortune and Love may be Deities still,
To those they Oblige by their Pow'r;
For my Part, they ever have us'd me so ill,
They cannot expect I'll adore:
Hereafter a Temple to Friendship I'll raise,
And dedicate there all the rest of my Days,
To the Goddess accepted my Vows,
_To the Goddess accepted my Vows_.

Thou perfectest Image of all things Divine,
Bright Center of endless Desires,
May the Glory be yours, and the Services mine,
When I light at your Altars the Fires.
I offer a Heart has Devotion so pure,
It would for your Service all Torments endure,
Might you but have all things you wish,
_Might you_, &c.

But yet the Goddess of Fools to despise,
I find I'm too much in her Power;
She makes me go where 'tis in vain to be wise,
In absence of her I adore:
If Love then undoes me before I get back,
I still with resignment receive the Attack,
Or languish away in Despair,
_Or languish_, &c.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ Henry Purcell.

[Music]

He himself courts his own Ruin,
That with too great Passion sues 'em:
When Men Whine too much in Wooing,
Women with like Coquets use 'em:
Some by this way of addressing
Have the Sex so far transported,
That they'll fool away the Blessing
For the Pride of being Courted.

Jilt and smile when we adore 'em,
While some Blockhead buys the Favour;
Presents have more Power o'er 'em
Than all our soft Love and Labour,
Thus, like Zealots, with screw'd Faces,
We our fooling make the greater,
While we cant long winded Graces,
Others they fall to the Creature.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ DAMASENE.

[Music]

Cease lovely _Strephon_, cease to charm;
Useless, alas! is all this Art;
It's needless you should strongly arm,
To take a too, too willing Heart:
I hid my weakness all I could,
And chid my pratling tell-tale Eyes,
For fear the easie Conquest should
Take from the value of the Prize.

But oh! th' unruly Passion grew
So fast, it could not be conceal'd,
And soon, alas! I found to you
I must without Conditions yield,
Tho' you have thus surpriz'd my Heart,
Yet use it kindly, for you know,
It's not a gallant Victor's part
To insult o'er a vanquish'd Foe.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ DAMASENE.

[Music]

You happy Youths, whose Hearts are free
From Love's Imperial Chain,
Henceforth be warn'd and taught by me,
And taught by me to avoid inchanting Pain,
Fatal the Wolves to trembling Flocks,
Sharp Winds to Blossoms prove:
To careless Seamen, hidden Rocks;
To human quiet Love.

Fly the Fair-Sex, if Bliss you prize,
The Snake's beneath the Flow'r:
Whoever gaz'd on Beauties Eyes,
That tasted Quiet more?
The Kind with restless Jealousie,
The Cruel fill with Care;
With baser Falshood those betray,
These kill us with Despair.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Dr._ STAGGINS.

[Music]

When first _Amyntas_ charm'd my Heart,
The heedless Sheep began to stray;
The Wolves soon stole the greatest part,
And all will now be made a Prey:
Ah! let not Love your Thoughts possess,
'Tis fatal to a Shepherdess;
The dangerous Passion you must shun,
Or else like me, be quite undone.

A SONG.

_Set by Mr._ RICHARD CROONE.

[Music]

How happy and free is the resolute Swain, That denies to submit to the Yoak of the Fair; Free from Excesses of Pleasure and Pain, Neither dazl'd with Hope, nor deprest with Despair. He's safe from Disturbance, and calmly enjoys All the Pleasures of Love, without Clamour and Noise.

Poor Shepherds in vain their Affections reveal, To a Nymph that is peevish, proud sullen and coy; Vainly do Virgins their Passions conceal, For they boil in their Grief, 'till themselves they destroy, And thus the poor Darling lies under a Curse: To be check'd in the Womb, or o'erlaid by the Nurse.

_A_ SONG.

_Sung by Mrs._ Cross _in the_ Mock-Astrologer, _Set by Mr._ RAMONDON.

[Music]

Why so pale and wan fond Lover?
Prithee, prithee, Prithee why so pale:
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking Ill, looking ill prevail?
Why so dull and mute young Sinner?
Prithee, prithee why so mute;
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing, nothing do't?
Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot, cannot, cannot, cannot take her;
If of her self she will not love,
Nothing can, nothing can make her,
The Devil, the Devil, the Devil, the Devil take her.

_A_ SONG _occasioned by a Lady's wearing a Patch upon a becoming place on her Face. Set by Mr._ John Weldon.

[Music]

That little Patch upon your Face
Wou'd seem a Foil on one less Fair,
Wou'd seem a Foil, wou'd seem a Foil,
Wou'd seem a Foil on one less Fair:
On you it hides a charming Grace,
And you in Pity, you in Pity,
You in Pity plac'd it there;
On you it hides a Charming Grace,
And you in Pity, you in Pity,
In Pity plac'd it there.
_And you in Pity, Pity,_
_And you in Pity plac'd it there._

_A_ SONG.

_Set and Sung by Mr._ LEVERIDGE _at the_ THEATER.

[Music]

_Iris_ beware when _Strephon_ pursues you,
'Tis but to boast a Conquest won:
All his Designs are aim'd to undo you,
Break off the Love he has begun:
When he's Addressing, and prays for the Blessing,
Which none but his _Iris_ can give alone;
O then beware, 'tis all to undo you,
'Tis but to boast a Conquest won:
She that's believing, while he is deceiving,
Like many already, will be undone;
_Iris_ beware when _Strephon_ pursues you,
'Tis but to boast a Conquest won.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ RAMONDON, _Sung at the_ Theatre.

[Music]

How charming _Phillis_ is, how Fair,
How charming _Phillis_ is, how Fair,
O that she were as willing,
To ease my wounded Heart of Care,
And make her Eyes less killing;
To ease my wounded Heart of Care,
And make her Eyes less killing;
To ease my wounded Heart of Care,
And make her Eyes less killing;
To ease my wounded Heart of Care,
And make her Eyes less killing.

I Sigh, I Sigh, I Languish now,
And Love will not let me rest;
I drive about the Park and Bow,
Where-e'er I meet my Dearest.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ ANTHONY YOUNG.

[Music]

Cease whining _Damon_ to Complain,
Of thy Unhappy Fate;
That _Sylvia_ should thy Love disdain,
Which lasting was and great.

For Love so constant flames so bright,
More unsuccessful prove:
Than cold neglect and sudden slight,
To gain the Nymph you love.

Then only you'll obtain the Prize,
When you her Coyness use;
If you pursue the Fair, she flies,
But if you fly, pursues.

Had _Phoebus_ not pursu'd so fast
The seeming cruel she;
The God a Virgin had embrac'd,
And not a lifeless Tree.

_A_ SONG _in the_ OPERA _call'd the_ BRITTISH ENCHANTERS. _Set by Mr._ J. ECCLES.

[Music]

Plague us not with idle Stories,
Whining Loves, whining Loves, whining Loves,
And Senceless Glories.
What are Lovers? what are Kings?
What, at best, but slavish Things?
What are Lovers? what are Kings?
What, at best, but slavish Things?
What, at best, but slavish Things?

Free I liv'd as Nature made me, Love nor Beauty durst invade me, No rebellious Slaves betray'd me, Free I liv'd as Nature made me, Each by turns as Sence inspired me, _Bacchus_, _Ceres_, _Venus_ fir'd me, I alone have learnt true Pleasure, Freedom, Freedom, Freedom is the only, only Treasure.

JUNO _in the Prize._

_Set by Mr._ JOHN WELDON.

[Music]

Let Ambition fire thy Mind,
Thou wert born o'er Men to Reign;
Not to follow Flocks design'd,
Scorn thy Crook, and leave the Plain:
Not to follow Flocks design'd,
Scorn thy Crook, and leave the Plain.

Crowns I'll throw beneath thy Feet,
Thou on Necks of Kings shalt tread,
Joys in Circles, Joys shall meet,
Which way e're thy fancy leads.

_The Beau's Character in the Comedy call'd_ Hampstead-Heath. _Set and Sung by Mr._ Ramondon.

[Music]

A Whig that's full,
An empty Scull,
A Box of _Burgamot_;
A Hat ne'er made
To fit his Head
No more than that to Plot.
A Hand that's White,
A Ring that's right,
A Sword, Knot, Patch and Feather;
A Gracious Smile,
And Grounds and Oyl,
Do very well together.

A smatch of _French_,
And none of Sence,
All Conquering Airs and Graces;
A Tune that Thrills,
A Lear that Kills,
Stoln Flights and borrow'd Phrases.
A Chariot Gilt,
To wait on Jilt,
An awkward Pace and Carriage;
A Foreign Tower,
Domestick Whore,
And Mercenary Marriage.

A Limber Ham,
G---- D---- ye M'am,
A Smock-Face, tho' a Tann'd one;
A Peaceful Sword,
Not one wise Word,
But State and Prate at Random.
Duns, Bastards, Claps,
And Am'rous Scraps,
Of _Caelia_ and _Amadis_;
Toss up a Beau,
That Grand Ragou,
That Hodge-Podge for the Ladies.

_A_ SONG _in the Innocent Mistress. Set by Mr._ John Eccles, _Sung by Mrs._ Hodgson.

[Music]

When I languish'd and wish'd you wou'd something bestow,
You bad me to give it a Name;
But by Heav'n I know it as little as you,
Tho' my Ignorance passes for Shame:
You take for Devotion each passionate Glance,
And think the dull Fool is sincere;
But never believe that I spake in Romance,
On purpose to tickle, on purpose, on purpose,
On purpose to tickle your Ear:
To please me than more, think still I am true,
And hug each Apocryphal Text;
Tho' I practice a Thousand false Doctrines on you,
I shall still have enough, I shall still have enough,
Shall still have enough for the next.

VENUS _to_ PARIS _in the Prize Musick. Set by Mr._ JOHN WELDON.

[Music]

Hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle Swain, Hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle Swain, Let not _Venus_, let not _Venus_, let not _Venus_ sue in vain; _Venus_ rules, _Venus_ rules, _Venus_ rules the Gods above, Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, and she rules Love? _Venus_ rules the Gods above, Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, and she rules Love. Love rules them, and she rules Love.

_A_ SONG.

_The Words by Mr._ WARD, _Set by Mr._ HARRIS.

[Music]

_Belinda_! why do you distrust,
So faithful and so kind a Heart:
Which cannot prove to you unjust,
But must it self endure the smart:
No, no, no, no the wandring Stars,
Shall sooner cease their Motion;
And Nature reconcile the Jars,
'Twixt _Boreas_ and the Ocean:
The fixed Poles shall seem to move,
And ramble from their Places;
E'er I'll from fair _Belinda_ rove,
Or slight her charming Graces.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ William Turner.

[Music]

Long was the Day e're _Alexis_ my Lover, To finish my Hopes would his Passion reveal; He could not speak, nor I could not discover, What my poor aking Heart was so loath to conceal: Till the Strength of his Passion his Fear had remov'd, Then we mutually talk'd, and we mutually lov'd.

Groves for Umbrella's did kindly o'er-shade us, From _Phoebus_ hot rages, who like envy in strove; Had not kind Fate this Provision made us, All the Nymphs of the Air would have envy'd our Love: But we stand below Envy that ill-natur'd Fate, And above cruel Scorn is happy Estate.

_A_ SONG.

_Set to Musick by Mr._ John Eccles.

[Music]

As _Cupid_ roguishly one Day, Had all alone stole out to play; The _Muses_ caught the little, little, little Knave, And captive Love to Beauty gave: The _Muses_ caught the little, little, little Knave, And captive Love to Beauty gave: The laughing Dame soon miss'd her Son, And here and there, and here and there, And here and there distracted run; Distracted run, and here and there, And here and there, and here and there distracted run: And still his Liberty to gain, his Liberty to gain, Offers his Ransom, But in vain, in vain, in vain; The willing, willing Prisoner still hugs his Chain, And Vows he'll ne'er be free, And Vows he'll ne'er be free, No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, No, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again, No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, No, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again.

_Old_ SOLDIERS.

[Music]

Of old Soldiers, the Song you would hear, And we old Fidlers have forgot who they were, But all we remember shall come to your Ear, _That we are old Soldiers of the Queens,_ _And the Queens old Soldiers._

With the _Old Drake_, that was the next Man To _Old Franciscus_, who first it began, To sail through the Streights of _Magellan_, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

That put the proud _Spanish Armado_ to wrack, And Travell'd all o'er the old World, and came back, In his old Ship, laden with Gold and old Sack, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

With an _Old Cavendish_, that seconded him, And taught his old Sails the same Passage to swim, And did them therefore with Cloth of Gold Trim, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

Like an _Old Rawleigh_, that twice and again, Sailed over most part of the _Seas_, and then Travell'd all o'er the World with his Pen, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

With an _Old John Norris_, the General, That at old _Gaunt_, made his Fame Immortal, In spight of his Foes, with no loss at all, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

Like _Old Brest Fort_, an invincible thing, When the old _Queen_ sent him to help the _French_ King, Took from the proud _Fox_, to the World's wond'ring, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

Where an old stout _Fryer_, as goes the Story, Came to push of Pike with him in Vain-glory, But he was almost sent to his own _Purgatory_, _By this old Soldier_, &c.

With an _Old Ned Norris_, that kept _Ostend_, A terror to Foe, and a Refuge to Friend, And left it Impregnable to his last End, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

That in the old unfortunate Voyage of all, March'd o'er the old Bridge, and knock'd at the Wall, Of _Lisbon_, the Mistress of _Portugal_, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

With an _Old Tim Norris_, by the old _Queen_ sent, Of _Munster_ in _Ireland_, Lord President, Where his Days and his Blood in her service he spent, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

With an _Old Harry Norris_, in Battle wounded, In his Knee, whose Leg was cut off, and he said, You have spoil'd my Dancing, and dy'd in his Bed, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

With an _Old Will Norris_, the oldest of all, Who went voluntary, without any Call, To th' old _Irish_ Wars, to's Fame Immortal, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

With an _Old Dick Wenman_, the first in his Prime, That over the Walls of old _Cales_ did Clime, And there was Knighted, and liv'd all his Time, _Like an old Soldier_, &c.

With _Old Nando Wenman_, when _Brest_ was o'er thrown, Into the Air, into the Seas, with Gunpowder blown, Yet bravely recovering, long after was known, _For an Old Soldier_, &c.

When an _Old Tom Wenman_, whose bravest delight, Was in a good Cause for his Country to Fight, And dy'd in _Ireland_, a good old Knight, _And an old Soldier_, &c.

With a Young _Ned Wenman_, so valiant and bold, In the Wars of _Bohemia_, as with the Old, Deserves for his Valour to be Enroll'd, _An old Soldier_, &c.

And thus of Old Soldiers, ye hear the Fame, But ne'er so many of one House and Name, And all of old _John Lord Viscount_ of _Thame_, _An old Soldier of the Queens,_ _And the Queens old Soldier._

_On the Tombs in_ Westminster Abby.

_You must suppose it to be_ Easter _Holy-Days: At what time_ Sisly _and_ Dol, Kate _and_ Peggy, Moll _and_ Nan, _are marching to_ Westminster, _with a Leash of Prentices before 'em; who go rowing themselves along with their right Arms to make more hast, and now and then with a greasie Muckender wipe away the dripping that bastes their Foreheads. At the Door they meet a crowd of_ Wapping _Sea-men_, Southwark _Broom-men, the Inhabitants of the_ Bank-Side, _with a Butcher or two prickt in among them. There a while they stand gaping for the Master of the Show, staring upon the Suburbs of their dearest delight, just as they stand gaping upon the painted Cloth before they go into the Puppet Play. By and by they hear the Bunch of Keys, which rejoyces their Hearts like the sound of the_ Pancake-Bell. _For now the Man of Comfort peeps over the Spikes, and beholding such a learned Auditory, opens the Gate of_ Paradise, _and by that time they are half got into the first Chapel, (for time is very precious) he lifts up his Voice among the Tombs, and begins his Lurrey in manner and form following._

_To the foregoing Tune; In Imitation of the Old Soldiers._

Here lies _William de Valence_,
A right good Earl of _Pembroke_,
And this is his Monument which you see,
I'll swear upon a Book.

He was high Marshal of _England_,
When _Henry_ the Third did Reign;
But this you take upon my Word,
That he'll ne'er be so again.

Here the Lord _Edward Talbot_ lies,
The Town of _Shrewsbury's_ Earl;
Together with his Countess fair,
That was a most delicate Girl.

The next to him there lyeth one,
Sir _Richard Peckshall_ hight;
Of whom we only this do say,
He was a _Hampshire_ Knight.

But now to tell you more of him,
There lies beneath this Stone:
Two Wives of his, and Daughters four,
To all of Us unknown.

Sir _Bernard Brockhurst_ there doth lie,
Lord Chamberlain to Queen _Ann_;
Queen _Ann_ was _Richard_ the Second's Queen,
And was King of _England_.

Sir _Francis Hollis_, the Lady _Frances_,
The same was _Suffolk's_ Dutchess;
Two Children of _Edward_ the Third,
Lie here in Death's cold Clutches.

This is the Third King _Edward's_ Brother,
Of whom our Records tell
Nothing of Note, nor say they whether,
He be in Heaven or Hell.

This same was _John_ of _Eldeston_,
He was no Costermonger;
But _Cornwall's_ Earl, and here's one dy'd,
'Cause he could live no longer.

The Lady _Mohun_, Dutchess of _York_,
And Duke of _York's_ Wife also;
But Death resolv'd to Horn the Duke,
She lies now with Death below.

The Lady _Ann Ross_, but wot ye well,
That she in Childbed dy'd;
The Lady Marquiss of _Winchester_,
Lies Buried by her side.

Now think your Penny well spent good Folks,
And that you're not beguil'd;
Within this Cup doth lie the Heart
Of a _French Embassador's_ Child.

But how the Devil it came to pass,
On purpose, or by chance;
The Bowels they lie underneath,
The Body is in _France_.

[Sidenote: Dol. _I warrant ye the_ Pharises _carried it away._]

There's _Oxford's_ Countess, and there also
The Lady _Burleigh_ her Mother;
And there her Daughter, a Countess too,
Lie close by one another.

These once were bonny Dames, and tho'
There were no Coaches then,
Yet could they jog their Tails themselves,
Or had them jogg'd by Men.

[Sidenote: Dick. _Ho, ho, ho, I warrant ye they did as other Women did, ha_ Ralf. Ralf. _Oy, Oy._]

But woe is me! those high born Sinners;
That went to pray so stoutly;
Are now laid low, and 'cause they can't,
Their Statues pray devoutly.

This is the Dutchess of _Somerset_,
By Name the Lady _Ann_;
Her Lord _Edward_ the Sixth Protected,
Oh! he was a Gallant Man.

[Sidenote: Tom. _I have heard a Ballad of him sang at_ Ratcliff Cross. Mol. _I believe we have it at home over our Kitchin Mantle-Tree._]

In this fair Monument which you see,
Adorn'd with so many Pillars;
Doth lie the Countess of _Buckingham_,
And her Husband, Sir _George Villers_.

This old Sir _George_ was Grandfather,
And the Countess she was Granny;
To the great Duke of _Buckingham_,
Who often topt King _Jammy_.

Sir _Robert Eatam_, a _Scotch_ Knight,
This Man was Secretary;
And scribl'd Compliments for two Queens,
Queen _Ann_, and eke Queen _Mary_.

This was the Countess of _Lenox_,
Yclep'd the Lady _Marget_:
King _James's_ Grandmother, and yet
'Gainst Death she had no Target.

This was Queen _Mary_, Queen of _Scots_,
Whom _Buchanan_ doth bespatter;
She lost her Head at _Tottingham_,
What ever was the Matter.

[Sidenote: Dol. _How came she here then?_ Will. _Why ye silly Oafe could not she be brought here, after she was Dead?_]

The Mother of our Seventh _Henry_,
This is that lyeth hard by;
She was the Countess wot ye well,
Of _Richmond_ and of _Derby_.

_Henry_ the Seventh lieth here,
With his fair Queen beside him,
He was the Founder of this Chapel,
Oh! may no ill betide him.

Therefore his Monument's in Brass,
You'll say that very much is;
The Duke of _Richmond_ and _Lenox_,
There lieth with his Dutchess.