Guess then, am I low church or high,
From that tow'r, or no steeple,
Whose merry toll exalts the foul,
And must make high-flown people.

V.

The guards came on, and look'd at John,
With countenance most pleasant,
By whisper round they all foon found
He was no damag'd peasant.

Thus while John stood the best he cou'd,
Expecting their decifion;

Damn him, says one, let him begone,
He's of our own religion.

WOULD

With her alone I'd chufe to live,

Variety I'd ne'er require,

Nor a greater, nor a greater,

Nor a greater bliss desire.

II.

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, I'll refign you,

I'll refign you, though I die.

III.

Let my Belinda fill my arms

With all her beauty, all her charms;

With fcorn and pity I'd look down

On the glories, on the glories,

On the glories of a crown.

THE

Beauty and Rigour.

I.

HE nymph that undoes me is fair and unkind, No less than a wonder by nature design'd; She's the grief of my heart, and the joy of my eye, And the cause of a flame that never can die.

And the caufe, &c.

II.

Her mouth, from whence wit ftill obligingly flows,
Has the beautiful blush, and the smell of the rose :
Love and destiny both attend on her will,
She wounds with a look, with a frown she can kill.
She wounds, &c.

III.

The desperate lover can hope no redress,
Where Beauty and Rigour are both in excess;
In Silvia they meet, so unhappy am I,

Who fees her must love, who loves her must die.
Who fees her, &c.

The Rival.

I.

OF all the torment, all the care,

By which our lives are curst,

Of all the forrows that we bear,

A rival is the worst.

By partners in another kind

Afflictions easier grow,

In love alone we hate to find

Companions in our wo.

II.

Silvia, for all the griefs you fee
Arifing in my breast,

I beg not that you'd pity me,
Would you but flight the rest.
Howe'er fevere your rigours are,
Alone with them I'd cope,
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

Hunting Song, going out.

HA

I.

ARK! away, 'tis the merry ton'd horn Calls the hunters all up with the morn; To the hills and the woodlands they steer, To unharbour the out-lying deer.

CHORUS of Huntsmen.

All the day long,

This, this is our fong,

Still hallooing,

And following,

So frolic and free;

Our joys know no bounds,

While we're after the hounds,

No mortals on earth are fo jolly as we.

II.

Round the woods when we beat, how we glow,

While the hills they all echo hillo;

With a bounce from his cover when he flies, Then our shouts they resound to the skies.

All the day, &c.

III.

When we sweep o'er the valleys, or climb
Up the heath-breathing mountains fublime,
What a joy from our labour do we feel!
Which alone they who taste can reveal.
All the day, &c.

The Return from the Chace.

I.

HE sweet rofy morn peeps over the hills,

THE

With blushes adorning the meadows and fields ; The merry, merry, merry horn calls, Come, come away, Awake from your flumbers, and hail the new day. The merry, &c.

II.

The flag rous'd before us, away feems to fly,
And pants to the chorus of hounds in full cry,
Then follow, follow, follow the mufical chace,
Where pleasure and vigorous health we embrace.
Then follow, &c.

III.

The day's fport when over makes blood circle right, And gives the brisk lover fresh charms for the night; Then let us, let us now enjoy all we can while we may, Let love crown the night, as our sports crown the day. Then let us, &c.

The Girl that's blythe and gay.

Tune-Black Jock.

F all the girls in our town,

OF

Or black, or yellow, or fair, or brown,
With their foft eyes and faces fo bright ;
Give me a girl that's blythe and gay,
As warm as June and as sweet as May,
With her heart free, and faithful as light.
What lovely couple then cou'd be
So happy and fo blefs'd as we !

On whom the sweetest joys would smile,
And all the cares of life beguile,
Entranc'd in blifs each rapt'rous night.

CYNT

I.

YNTHIA frowns whene'er I woo her,
Yet fhe's vex'd if I give over;

Much fhe fears I should undo her,
But much more to lose her lover;

Thus in doubting she refuses,
And not winning thus fhe lofes.

II.

Prithee, Cynthia, look behind you,
Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you;
Then too late, defire will find you
When the power must forsake you.
Think upon the fad condition
To be pafs'd, yet wish fruition.