It is the toy of the age,

And muckle to do there's about it. She. Yet I had rather be dead,

Than live in fcandal without it. Both. Then fince ill fortune attends, Our remedy can be no dearer ; Come let's kifs, and be friends.; And figh we can be no nearer,

DEAR Dorinda, weep no more,

No more, my charming creature, grieve;
My wandrings I will now give o'er,
And in the peaceful fhades will live.
With thee, my joy, will live and love,
Conftant as nature to its courfe ;
As conftant as the turtle-dove,

Whofe love death only can divorce.

Thy fighs no more can Silvia hear,
Thy pretty innocence has won
Me, all my paffion to declare,

Which can be due to you alone.

Joy of my mind, then let us hafte

And join our hands as hearts are join'd,

No flying moments let us waste,

In which we greater joys may find.

WAS within a furlong of Edinborough town, TWA

In the rofie time of year, when the grafs was
Bonny Focky, blith and gay,

Said to Jenny, making hay,

Let us fit a little, dear, and prattle,
'Tis a fultry day.

(down,

He long had courted the black-brow'd maid;
But focky was a wag, and wou'd ne'er confent to wed:
Which made her pish and phoc,

And cry it ne'er fhall do ;

I cannot, cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot buckle too.

He told her marriage was grown a meer joke,
And that none wedded now, but the scoundrel folk:
Yet, my dear, thou shou'dft prevail,

But, I know not what I ail,

I fhall dream of clogs, and filly dogs

With bottles at their tail.

But I'll give thee gloves, and a bongrace to wear, And a pretty filly foal, to ride out and take the air, If thou ne'er wilt pifh and phoo,

And cry it ne'er shall do,

I cannot, cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot buckle too.

That you'll give me trinkets, cry'd fhe, I believe But ah! what in return must your poor Jenny give? When my maiden treasure's gone,

I must gang to London town,

Ani

And roar and rant, and patch and paint,

And kifs for half a crown;

Each drunken bully oblige for pay,

And earn an hated living an odious fulfome way;

No, no, it ne'er fhall do;

For a wife I'll be to you,

(too.

Or I cannot, cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, buckle

TIS

IS not your faying that you love,
Can ease me of my smart;

Your actions must your words approve,
Or else you break my heart.

In vain you bid my paffion cease,

And ease my troubled breast;
Your love alone must give me peace
Reftore my wonted rest.

But, if I fail your heart to move,
Or 'tis not yours to give;

I cannot, wonnot cease to love;
But, I will cease to live.

VOL. II.

Y

A

CAREY BERN

A Mad Song.

(Sullenly Mad.

FROM rofie bowers, where fleeps the god of love,
Hither ye little waiting Cupids fly;
Teach me, in foft melodious strains, to move,
With tender paffion, my heart's darling joy ;
Ah! let the foul of mufick tune my voice,
To win dear Strephon, who my foul enjoys.

(Mirthfully Mad.)

Or if more influencing
Is to be brisk and airy,
With a step and a bound,
And a frisk from the ground,

I'll trip like any fairy.
As once on Ida dancing

Were three celestial bodies,

With an air and a face,

And a fhape and a grace,

I'll charm like beauty's goddefs.

(Melancholy Mad.)

Ah! ah! 'tis in vain, 'tis all in vain,

Death and despair muft end the fatal pain;

Cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rain,
Falls on my breast; bleak winds in tempests blow,
My veins all fhiver, and my fingers glow,
My pulfe beats a dead march for lost repose,
And to a folid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze.

-Or

(Fantastically Mad.)

Or fay, ye powers, my peace to crown,
Shall I thaw my self, or drown
Amongst the foaming billows,
Increasing all with tears I fhed

On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows,
Lay down my love-fick head.

(Stark Mad.)

No, no, no, no, I'll straight run mad,
That foon my heart will warm ;
When once the fenfe is fled,

Love has no power to charm :-
Wild thro' the woods. I'll fly;
Robes, locks fhall thus be tore,
A thousand deaths I'll die,
E're thus in vain adore.

SINCE, Celia, 'tis not in our power

To tell how long our lives may last,

Begin to love this very hour;

You've left too much in what is past,

For fince the power we all obey,

Has in your breast my heart confin'd,

Let me my body to it lay;

In vain you'd part what nature join'd.