B Low, blow, Boreas, blow, and let thy furly winds Thou canst no terror breed in valiant minds, But spite of thee we'll live and find a fhoar. Then cheer, my mates, and be not aw'd, Tho' hell's broke loose, and the devils roar abroad, Hey! how she toffes up, how far! The mounting top-mast touch'd a star; The meteors blaz'd as through the clouds we came; -And Salamander-like we liv'd in flame. But now, now we fink, now, now we go Alas! alas! where are we now! Who, who can tell! Sure 'tis the lowest room of hell, Or where the fea-gods dwell; With them we'll live, with them we'll live and reign, With them we'll laugh, and fing, and drink amain; But fee, we mount, fee, fee, we rise again Chorus. Tho' flashes of lightning, and tempefts of rain, We'll drink and defy The mad fpirits that fly From the deep to the sky, And fing whilft loud thunder, and fing whilst loud thun For fate ftill will have (der does bellow; A kind fate for the brave, And ne'er make his grave Of a falt-water wave, To drown, to drown, no, never to drown a goodfellow. Au! A H! bright Belinda, hither fly, Arife, my day, with fpeed arife, No longer let me figh in vain, And curfe the hoarded treafure: The petty powers of hell destroy; The choice then fure's not hard to make Betwixt a good and evil;. Which title had you rather take, My goddefs, or my devil? LOVE L OVE arms himself in Celia's eyes, And every time I dare be wife, Repeated thoughts prefent the ill, Which feeing I must still endure; They tell me love has darts to kill, And wisdom has no power to cure. Then cruel reafon give me rest, Quit in my heart thy feeble hold;. There all thy niceft arts employ; ARISE RISE, arife, great dead, for arms renown'd, AR Rife from your urns, and fave your dying story; Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drown'd, For mighty William feizes all your glory, Again the British trumpet sounds, To glorious death, or comely wounds, Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe, BEAUT EAUTY is not what I pray, Celia has another way, Without the tricks of faces. So our humours ftill agree, Kind heav'n, it is enough for me. Mere fruition is a joy But of a moment's lasting: CUSTOM, |