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My Dog I was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his Tail to my fair one and me;
And PHEBE was pleas'd too, and to my Dog said,
Come hither, poor Fellow; and patted his Head;
But now, when he's fawning, I with a fow'r Look,
Cry, Sirrah; and give him a Blow with my

And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his Master, when PHE BE 's away?


When walking with PHE BE, what Sights have I seen? How fair was the Flow'r, how fresh was the Green? What a lovely Appearance the Trees and the Shade, The Corn-Fields and Hedges, and ev'ry Thing made? But now she has left me, tho' all are still there, They none of 'em now so delightful appear : 'Twas nought but the Magick, I find, of her Eyes, Made so many beautiful Prospects arise.


Sweet Musick went with us both all the Wood thro', The Lark, Linnet, Throftle, and Nightingale too;

Winds over us whisperd, Flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the Grashopper under our Feet.
But now she is absent, tho' still they sing on,
The Woods are but lonely, the Melody's gone :
Her Voice in the Confort, as now I have found,
Gave ey'ry thing else its agreeable sound,


Rose, what is become of thy delicate Hue?
And where is the Violet's beautiful Blue?
Does ought of its Sweetness the Blossome beguile,
That Meadow, those Daisy's, why do they not smile?
Ah! Rivals, I see what it
And made

your selves fine for; a Place in her Breast:
You put on your Colours to pleasure her Eye,
To be pluck'd by her Hand, on her Bosome to die.

was that

you dreft,

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How Nowly Time creeps, till my PHEBE return?
While amidst the soft Zephyrs cool Breezes I burn;
Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his Wings, and ’rwould melt down the

Fly swifter ye Minutes, bring hither my Dear,
And rest so much longer for't when she is here.


Ah, COLIN! old TIM E is full of Delay,
Nor will budge one Foot fafter for all thou can'st say.


Will no pitying Pow'r, that hears me complain, Or cure my Disquiet, or soften my Pain? To be cur’d, thou must, COLIN, thy Passion remove, But what Swain is so silly to live without Love; No, Deity, bid the dear Nymph to return, For ne'er was poor Shepherd fo sad, so forlorn.. Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with Despair, . Take heed, all ye Swains, how ye love one fo Fair.

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SHUFF of Newbury.



To the Tune of, Chevy Chase.

N bloody Town of Newbury,

There liy'd and dy'd a Blockhead;
of whom, I'm sure, you ne'er had heard,

If he had not been choaked.

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The Ancient Borough callid him SHUFF,

Of State not yery thriving,

Since the same Thing which made him die,

Is that which keeps us l'iving.


He Custard on a Wager eat,

And so did cram his Weazand, That tho' he put it in, he could

Not pluck it out out with his Hand.


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Innocent Meat did fatal prove,

Eat ready without Knife,
Down on the Ground he groy'ling fell,

And Custard stroye with Life,


But as he saw the Enemy,

Was like to stop his Breath, He manfully gave up the Ghost,

And dying, eat his Death.


As Scavola more Credit got,

'Cause his bold Hand did miss;


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