"TIS too late for a coach,

And too foon to reel home;

We've freedom to stagger
When the town is our own.

Let's whirl it away,

And whip fix-pence round, Till the drawers are founder'd, And the hogfheads found. The glass stays with you, Tom, Save your tide, pull away;

One minute at midnight is worth a whole day.

PHILLIS, I pray,
Why did you fay,

That I did not adore you?

I durft not fue

As others do,

Nor talk of love before you.

Shou'd I make known

My flame, you'd frown;

No tears cou'd e'er appeafe you: 'Tis better I

Shou'd filent die,

Than, talking, to displease you.

AH!

AH! cruel, bloody fate,

What can't thou now do more?

Alas! 'tis now too late

Philander to restore.

Why shou'd the heav'nly powers perfuade
Poor mortals to believe,

That they guard us here,

And reward us there ; Yet all our joys deceive!

Her ponyard then she took,
And held it in her hand;
And, with a dying look,

Cry'd, thus I fate command:
Philander, ah! my love, I come
To meet thy fhade below;
Ah! I come, fhe cry'd,
With a wound so wide,
There needs no fecond blow.

In purple waves her blood

Ran streaming down the floor; Unmov'd fhe faw the flood,

And blefs'd her dying hour: Philander! ah, Philander! still The bleeding Phillis cry'd ;.

She

She wept a while,

And forc'd a fmile;

Then clos'd her eyes, and dy'd.

THO' you make no return to my paffion,
Still, ftill I prefume to adore;

'Tis in love but an odd reputation,
When faintly repuls'd, to give o'er:
When you talk of your duty,

I gaze at your beauty,

Nor mind the dull maxim at all:
Let it reign in Cheapfide,

With the citizen's bride;

It will ne'er be receiv'd at White-ball.

What apocryphal tales are you told;
By one, who wou'd make you believe,
That, because of to have and to bold,
You ftill must be pinn'd to his fleeve:
'Twere apparent high treason,
'Gainst love and 'gainst reafon,
Shou'd one fuch a treasure engrofs;
He who knows not the joys,

That attend fuch a choice,
Shou'd refign to another that does.

To a Lady finging a Song of his
compofing...

CHLORIS, yourself you so excel,

When you vouchfafe to breathe my though

That, like a fpirit, with this fpell

Of my own teaching, I anı caught.

The eagle's fate and mine are one,

Which on the fhaft that made him die

Espy'd a feather of his own,

Wherewith he wont to foar fo high.

Had Eecho with so sweet a grace,
Narciffus loud complaints return'd,
Not for reflection of his face,

But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.

I'LL tell her the next time, faid I:

In vain in vain! for when I try,

Upon my timorous tongue the trembling accents die. Alas! a thousand thousand fears

Still over awe, when she appears;

My breath is spent in fighs, my eyes are drown'd in

tears.)

The

The Humours of the Watch.

WHO comes there? stand,

WH

And come before the constable,

We'll know what you are.
What makes you out fo late?
Says the midnight magistrate,
With his noddle full of ale,
In a wooden chair of state.

Whence come you, fir? And whither do you go?

You may be a jefuit for ought I know.

You may as well, fir, take me

For a Mahometan.

He speaks Latin; secure him;

He's a dangerous man.

To tell you the truth, fir,
I am an honest Tory;
Here's a crown to drink;

And there's an end of the story.
Good morrow, fir; a civil man
Is always welcome:

Go, Barnaby Bounce,

Light the gentleman home.

STRE