Now woe to the bum that this fiddle demolish'd, That has all our mufick and paftime abolish'd; May it never want birch, to be switch'd and be slash'd; May it ever be itching, and never be scratch'd.

May it never break wind in the cholick fo grievous, A penance too fmall for a crime fo mischievous; Ne'er find a foft cushion its anguish to ease, While all is too little my wrath to appease,

Of other bum-scapes may it still bear the blame, Ne'er fhew its bare face without forrow or fhame; May it ne'er mount on horfeback without lofs of leaWhich brings me almoft to the end of my tether.(ther

And now, left fome critick of deep penetration, Shou'd attack our poor ballad with grave annotation, The fop must be told, without fpeaking in riddle, He must first make a better, or kifs this bum-fiddle,

May

W

OU'D fate to me Belinda give,
With her alone I'd chufe to live;

Nor with her cou'd I more require,
Nor a greater blifs defire.

My charming nymph, if you can find,
Amongst the race of human kind,
A man that loves you more than I,
I'll refign you, tho' I die.

Let my Belinda fill my arms,
With all her beauties, all her charms,
With fcorn and pity I'd look down
On the glories of a crown.

'TV

The Swan.

W AS on a river's verdant fide,
About the clofe of day,

A dying fwan with mufick try'd,

To chafe her cares away :

And tho' fhe ne'er had strain'd her throat,

Or tun'd her voice before,

Death, ravifh'd with fo fweet a note,

Awhile the ftroke forbore.

Farewell, the cry'd, ye filver streams
Ye purling waves adieu,

Where Phabus us'd to dart his beams,
And bleft both me and you:

Farewell, ye tender whistling reeds,
Soft fcenes of happy love;
Farewell, ye bright enamell'd meads,
Where I was wont to rove;

With you I must no more converse

Look, yonder fetting fun

e;

Waits, while I these last notes rehearse,
And then I must be gone.

Mourn not, my kind and constant mate,
We'll meet again below
It is the kind decree of fate,

And I with pleasure go.

While thus fhe fung, upon a tree
Within th' adjacent wood,
To hear her mournful melody,
A ftork attentive stood:

From whence, thus to the fwan fhe spoke
What means this song of joy?

Is it, fond fool, so kind a stroke,
That does thy life destroy?

Turn back, deluded bird, and try

To keep thy fleeting breath; It is a dismal thing to die;

And pleasure ends in death.

Bafe

Bafe ftork, the fwan reply'd, give o'er;

Thy arguments are vain;

If after death we are no more,
Yet we are free from pain :

But there are soft Elifian fhades,
And bowers of kind repose,
Where never any storm invades,
Nor tempeft ever blows.

There in cool ftreams, and fhady woods,
I'll fport the time away;

Or, fwimming down the cryftal floods,
Among young halcyons play,

Then pr'ythee cease, or tell me why
I have fuch cause to grieve,

Since it's a happiness to die,
And it's a pain to live,

HARK! how the tuneful British swain,
Who to the ecchoing bills and groves;
So sweetly fung of paftoral loves,

Prepares his warbling voice again!

With happy skill the Lesbian lyre he strings,
Reftores each animated found;

Again they trill, they charm, they wound

While th' amorous fhepherd his own' passion fings, ind to fome bright applauded dame,

In Sappho's words, thus fpeaks a real flame.

Ode from the Greek of Sappho, by Mr. PHILIPS.

Bleft as th' immortal gods is he,
The youth, who fondly fits by thee,
And fees and hears thee all the while
Softly speak, and fweetly smile.

'Twas that depriv'd my foul of rest,
And rais'd fuch tumults in my breast:
For while I gaz'd; in tranfport toft,
My breath was gone, my voice was loft.
My bofom glow'd the fubtil flame
Ran quick thro' all my vital frame;
On my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

With dewy damps my limbs were chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulfe forgot to play;

I fainted, funk, and dy'd away.

The