She fings me a fong, and I echo each strain, She tells me her faults, as he fits on my knee, V. Yet fuch is my temper, fo dull am I grown, I ask not Her heart, but would conquer my own: Her bofom's foft peace fhall I feek to o'erthrow, And wish to perfuade, while I answer no, no? VI. From beauty, and wit, and good-humour, ah! why Should prudence advife, and compel me to fly? Thy bounties, O Fortune! make hafte to bestow, And let me deferve her, or ftill I fay no. SONG THE TENTH. I. OW bleft has my time been, what days have I Η How known, Since wedlock's foft bondage made Jeffe my own! So joyful my heart is, fo eafy my chain, That freedom is tastelefs, and roving a pain. II. Through walks, grown with woodbines, as often All wet with the night's chilling dew, And night-ravens croak'd all around. III. How long, my lov'd Collin, fhe' cry'd, How long must thy Lucy complain? With thee o'er the world would she fly, For thee has she forrow'd and griev'd,`· For thee would fhe lie down and die. Alas! what avails it how dear Thy Lucy was once to her swain!' Her face like the lily so fair, And eyes that gave light to the plain !The fhepherd that lov'd her is gone, That face and those eyes charm no more; And Lucy forgot and alone, To death fhall her Collin deplore. While thus fhe lay funk in despair, And mourn'd to the echoes around, Inflam'd all at once grew the air, And thunder fhook dreadful the ground: I hear the kind call, and obey, Oh, Collin receive me, she cry'd! SONG THE THIRTEENTH W HEN Damon languish'd at my feet; The moments of delight how sweet! II. To talk of joy with weeping eyes, And measure time by pain. But heaven will take the mourner's part, And the last figh that rends the heart, In hallow'd walks, and awful cells, The wanton's voice is heard not here, To heav'n the facred pile belongs; -Each wall returns the whisper'd pray'r, And echoes but to holy fongs. RECITATIVE. Alas, that pamper'd monks should dare Intrude where fainted veftals are! Ah, Francis! Francis! well I weet Thofe holy looks all are deceit. With fhaine the mufe prolongs her tale, The Priest was young, the Nun was frail, Devotion faulter'd on her tongue, Love tun'd her voice, and thus the fung. AIR. Alas, how deluded was I, To fancy delights as I did! With maidens at midnight to figh, And love, the sweet paffion, forbid ! F BE A SERENATA: SET TO MUSIC BY DR. BOYCE. PART I CHORUS. EHOLD, Jerufalem, thy king, RECITATIVE. Tell me, lovely fhepherd, where HE. Fairest of the virgin throng, See yon fertile vale along The new-worn path the flocks have trod : Pursue the prints their feet have made, And they fhall guide thee to the shade, RECITATIVE. SHE. As the rich apple, on whose boughs. Ripe fruit with streaky beauty glows, Excels the trees that fhade the grove, So fhines, among his fex, my love. AIR. Beneath his ample shade I lay, And quench'd the fires that in me rag'd; I rofe and bleft the sweet repast. N, RECITATIVE Balmy sweetness, ever flowing, From her dropping lips diftills; Flowers on her cheeks are blowing, And her voice with music thrills. Zephyrs o'er the spices flying, Wafting sweets from every tree, Sick'ning fenfe with odours cloying, Breathe not half so sweet as fhe. RECITATIVE. Because the fun's difcolouring rays Ah fimple me! my own, more dear, AIR. HE. Fair and comely is my love, And fofter than the blue-ey'd dove ; Down her neck the wanton locks Bound like the kids on Gilead's rocks; Her teeth like flocks in beauty feem, New fhorn, and dropping from the stream; The plaited threads of scarlet dye; RECITATIVE. SHE. Forbear, O charming fwain, forbear! Thy voice enchants my lift'ning ear; And while I gaze my bosom glows, My flutt'ring heart with love o'erflows. The fhades of night hang o'er my eyes, And every fenfe within me dies. AIR. O fill with cooling juice the bowl! PART II. RECITATIVE. Hr. The chearful spring begins to-day; Arife, my fair-one, come away! RECITATIV E. SHE. Sweet mufic steals along the airHark!- -my beloved's voice I hear! AIR. Hz. Arife, my fair, and come away, The vines their infant tendrils shoot: All welcome in the genial ray, Together let us range the fields, Impearled with the morning dew; Or view the fruits the vineyard yields, Or the apple's cluft ring bough: There in close-embower'd fhades, Impervious to the noon-tide ray, By tinkling rills, on rofy beds, We'll love the fultry hours away. RECITATIVE. Let me, love, thy bole ascending, From thy honey-dropping mouth; RECITATIVE. Soft! I adjure you, by the fawns RECITATIVE. HE. My fair's a garden of delight, Enclos'd and hid from vulgar sight; Where ftreams from bubbling fountains stray, And rofes deck the verdant way. AIR. Softly arife, O fouthern breeze! That fweets from every part may flow. CHORU S. Ye fouthern breezes, gently blow, That fweets from every part may flow. PART III. AIR. HE. Arife, my fair, the doors unfold, Receive me thivering with the cold. RECITATIVE. SHE. My heart amidst my flumbers wakes, And tells me my beloved speaks. AIR. HE. Arife, my fair, the doors unfold, RECITATIVE. Ah! whither, whither art thou gone? CHORUS OF VIRGINS. AIR. SHE. On his face the vernal rofe, Blended with the lilly, glows; His locks are as the raven black, In ringlets waving down his back; His eyes with milder beauties beam, Than billing doves beside the stream; His youthful cheeks are beds of flow'rs, Enripen'd by refreshing show'rs; His lips are of the rofe's hue, Dropping with a fragrant dew; Tall as the cedar he appears, And as erect his form he bears. This, O ye virgins, is the fwain, Whofe abfence causes all my pain. RECITATIVE. HE. Sweet nymph. whom ruddier charms adorn, Like glitt'ring arms that gild the war. SHE. O take me! stamp me on thy breast! For love, like arm'd death, is strong, If once to jealousy he turns, F 2 DUET. Thou foft invader of the foul! O love, who fhall thy pow'r controul ! In vain we trace the globe to try, IN PR 0 L G U E GIL BL AS,.-. SPOKEN BY MR. WOODWARD Damn him-or by my foul, he'll write a third. THE CHARACTER OF A CRITIC, WITH A Write but with fire-and we'll applaud with spirit Our author aims at no dishonest ends, He knows no enemies, and boasts some friends; END. OF MOORE'S FOEMS. |