Then our partners were buxom as does, And we all were as happy as kings, Each lad in his holyday clothes,
And the lasses in all their best things. What merriment all the day long!
May the feast of our Colin prove such. Odzooks, but I'll join in the song,
And I'll hobble about with my crutch.
WHEN vapours o'er the meadow die,
And Morning streaks the purple sky,
I wake to love with jocund glee
To think on him who doats on me.
When Eve embrowns the verdant grove
And Philomel laments her love,
Each sigh I breathe, my love reveals
And tells the pangs my bosom feels.
With secret pleasure I survey
The frolic birds in amorous play,
While fondest cares my heart employ,
Which flutters, leaps, and beats for joy.
YES that's a magazine of arms'
To triumph over Time;
Whence Beauty borrows half her charms
And always keeps her prime.
At that the prude, coquette, and saint,
Industrious sets her face,
While powder, patch, and wash, and paint,
Repair or give a grace.
To arch the brow there lies the brush,
The comb to tinge the hair,
The Spanish wool to give the blush,
The pearl to die them fair.
Hence rise the wrinkled, old, and grey,
In freshest beauty strong,
As Venus fair, as Flora gay,
As Hebe ever young.
Go! seek some nymph of humbler lot,
To share thy board, and deck thy cot,
With joy I fly the simple youth
Who holds me light, or doubts my truth.
Thy breast, for love too wanton grown,
Shall mourn it's peace and pleasure flown,
Nor shall my faith reward a swain,
Who doubts my love, or thinks me vain,
THUS laugh'd at, jilted, and betray'd,
I stamp, I tear, I rave;
Capricious, light, injurious maid,
I'll be no more thy slave,
I'll rend thy image from my heart,
Thy charms no more engage;
My soul shall take the juster part,
And love shall yield to rage.
THANK you, ladies, for your care,
But I pray you both forbear,
Sure I am all over scratches!
That your curious hands must place,
Such odd spots upon my face
With your pencils, paint, and patches.
The toilette.
How I totter in my gait,
From a dress of so much weight,
With my robe too dangling after;
Could my Colin now but see
What a thing they've made of me,
Oh he'd split his sides with laughter.
THE flowers which grace their native beds,
Awhile put forth their blushing heads,
But ere the close of parting day
They wither, shrink, and die away.
But these which mimic skill hath made,
Nor scorch'd by suns, nor kill'd by shade,
Shall blush with less inconstant hue,
Which art or pleasure can renew.
WHEN late a simple rustic lass,
I rov'd without restraint,
A stream was all my looking-glass,
And health my only paint.
The charms I boast (alas! how few!)
I gave to Nature's care,
As vice ne'er spoilt their native hue,
They could not want repair.
AIR XII.
How strange the mode which truth neglects,
And rests all beauty in defects!
But we by homely Nature taught,
Though rude in speech are plain in thought.
FOR various purpose serves the fan,
As thus
a decent blind,
Between the sticks to peep at man,
Nor yet betray your mind.
Each action has a meaning plain,
Resentment's in the snap,
A flirt expresses strong disdain,
Consent a gentle tap.
All passions will the fair disclose,
All modes of female art,
And to advantage sweetly shows
The hand, if not the heart.
'Tis Folly's sceptre first design'd
By Love's capricious boy,
Who knows how lightly all mankind
Are govern'd by a toy.
IF tyrant Love with cruel dart
Transfix the maiden's tender heart,
Of easy faith and fond belief,
She hugs the dart, and aids the thief.
Till left, her helpless state to mourn,
Neglected, loving, and forlorn;
She finds, while grief her bosom stings,
As well as darts the god has wings.
ALONG your verdant lowly vale
Calm Zephyr breathes a gentle gale,
But rustling through the lofty trees
It swells beyond the peaceful breeze,
Thus free from Envy's poison'd dart,
You boast a pure unruffled heart.
While jarring thoughts our peace deform, And swell our passious to a storm.
THO' my dress, as my manners, is simple and
A rascal I hate, and a knave 1 disdain; [plain,
My dealings are just, and my conscience is clear,
And I'm richer than those who have thousands a
year.
Tho' bent down with age and for sporting uncouth,
I feel no remorse from the follies of youth;
I still tell my tale, and rejoice in my song,
And my boys think my life not a moment too long.
Let the courtiers, those dealers in grin and grimace,
Creep under, dance over, for title or place;
Above all the titles that flow from a throne,
That of honest I prize, and that title's my own.
AIR XVII.
FROM flow'r to flow'r the butterfly,
O'er fields or gardens ranging,
Sips sweets from each, and flutters by,
And all his life is changing.
Thus roving man new objects sway,
By various charms delighted,
While she who pleases most to day
To morrow shall be slighted.
WHEN far from fashion's gilded scene
I breath'd my native air,
My thoughts were calm, my mind serene,
No doubtings harbour'd there.
But now no more myself I find,
Distraction rends my breast; Whilst hopes and fears disturb my mind, And murder all my rest.
FLATTERING hopes the mind deceiving
Easy faith too often cheat,
Woman, fond and all believing
Loves and hugs the dear deceit.
Noisy show of pomp and riches,
Cupid's trick to catch the fair,
Lowly maids too oft bewitches,
Flattery is the beauty's snare.
WHAT'S all the pomp of gaudy courts, But vain delights and jingling toys, While pleasure crowns your rural sports With calm content and tranquil joys.
RETURN, Sweet lass, to flocks and swains, Where simple Nature mildly reigns;
Where love is every shepherd's care,
And every nymph is kind as fair.
The court has only tinsel toys,
Insipid mirth and idle noise;
But rural joys are ever new,
While nymphs are kind, and shepherds true.
AIR XXII.
A simple swain, a simple maid,
AGAIN in rustic weeds array'd,
O'er rural scenes with joy we'll rove,
By dimpling brook, or cooling grove.
And warble wild their merry notes;
The birds shall strain their little throats,
Whilst we converse beneath the shade,
A happy swain, and happy maid.
Thy hands shall pluck, to grace my bow'r,
The luscious fruit, the fragrant flow'r,
Whilst joys shall bless, for ever new,
Thy Phoebe kind, my Colin true.
WHY should I now, my love, complain,
That toil awaits thy cheerful swain,
Since labour oft a sweet bestows
Which lazy splendour never knows?
Hence springs the purple tide of health,
The rich man's wish, the poor man's wealth,
And spreads those blushes o'er the face,
Which come and go with native grace.
The pride of dress the pomp of show,
Are trappings oft to cover woe;
But we, whose wishes never roam,
Shall taste of real joys at home.
No doubt but your fool's-cap has known
His highness obligingly kind,
-Odzooks I could knock the fool down,
Was e'er such a cuckoldy hind?
To be sure, like a good-natur'd spouse,
You've lent him a part of your bed;
He has fitted the horns to your brows,
And I see them sprout out of your head.
To keep your wife virtuous and chaste
The court is a wonderful school,
-My lord you've an excellent taste.
-And, son, you're a cuckoldy fool.
If your lady should bring you an heir,
The blood will flow rich in his veins, Many thanks to my lord for his care-You dog, I could knock out your brains.
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