"Come," eries the dame, "Nancy here's thy spouse,

"Away throw rock and reel :" Blyth Nancy, with the bonny news, O'erfet her fpinning-wheel..

SONG 104.

JEMMY AND NANNY.

Set by Dr. ARNE, and fung at Marybone Gardens.
WHEN innocent paftime our pleasure did crown,
Upon a green meadow or under a tree,
E'er Nanny became a fine lady in town,
How lovely and loving and bonny was fhe
Rouze up in the morning my beautiful Nanny,
Let no new whim take thy fancy from me,
Oh! as thou art bonny, be faithful as any,
Favour thy Jemmy, favour thy. Jemmy,

Favour thy Jemmy who doats upon thee,

Can the death of a linnet give Nanny the spleen,
Can lofing of trifles a. heart aching he,
Can lap dogs and monkies draw tears from thofe een,
That look with indiff'rence on poor dying me;
Rouze up thy reafon, my beautiful Nanny,

Scorn to prefer a vile parrot to me ;:
Oh! as thou art bonny, be faithful as any,
Thing on thy Jemmy, think on thy Jemmy,

Think on thy Jemmy who doats upon thee.

O think my dear charmer on ev'ry sweet hour,
That flide away foftly between thee and me,
E're squirrels and beaux and their fopp'ry had pow'r,
To rival my love and impose upon thee:
Rouze up thy reafon my beautiful Nanny,
Let thy defires be all center'd in me,
Oh! as thou art bonny, be prudent as any,
Love thy own Jemmy, love thy own Jemmy,
Love thy own Jemmy who doats upon thee.

SONG 105.

Sung in THE MAID OF THE MILL.

ODDS my life! fearch England over,

If you match her in her station, I'll be bound to fly the nation; And be fure as well I love her.

Do but feel my heart a beating,
Still her pretty name repeating:
Here's the work 'tis always at,
Pitty, patty, pat, pit, pat,

When the makes the music tinkle,
What on earth can sweeter be!
Then her little eyes fo twinkle,

'Tis a feaft to hear and fee.

SONG 106.

ALL I ASK OF MORTAL MAN.

THE wanton god who pierces hearts,

Dips in gall his pointed darts,

But the nymph difdains to pine,

Who bathes the wound with rofy wine.
Rofy wine, rofy wine,

Who bathes the wound with rofy wine.

Farewel, Lovers, when they're cloy'd; If I am fcorn'd because enjoy'd,

Sure the fqueamish fops are free

To rid me of dull company.

Sure they're free, fure they're free,
To rid me of dull company.

They have their charms while mine can please, I love them much, but more my ease;

Jealous fears me ne'er moleft,

Nor faithlefs vows fhall break my reft.

Break my reft, break my reft,

Nor faithlefs vows fhall break my ret.

Why should they ever give me pain,
Who to give me joy disdain ?
All I hope of mortal man,

Is to love me while he can.

While he can, while he can,

Is to love me while he can.

SONG 107.

LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and

rejoice,

With claret, canary, theorbo, and voice;
The changeable world to our joys are unjuft,
And all pleasure's ended, when we are in dust.
In mirth let us spend our spare hours and our pence,
For we fhall be paft it an hundred years hence.

The butterfly courtier, that pageant of flate, The moufe-trap of honour, and May-game of fate; For all his ambition, his freaks, and his tricks, He muft die like a bumpkin, and fall into Styx: His plot against death's but a flender pretence; Who'll take his place from him an hundred years hence?

The beautiful bride, who with garlands is crown'd, And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground;

Her glittering dress does caft fuch a splendor, As if none were fit but the ftars to attend her ; Altho' fhe is pleafant and fweet to the fenfe, She'll be d-ble mouldy an hundred years hence.

The right-hearted foldier, who's a ftranger to fear,

Calls up all his fpirits when danger is near;

He labours and fights, great honour to gain,
And certainly thinks it will ever remain ;
But virtue and courage prove in vain a pretence,
To flourish his ftandard an hundred years hence.

The merchant who ventures his all on the main, Not doubting to grafp what the Indies contain, He buzzes and buftles, like a bee in the fpring, Yet knows not what harvest the autumn will bring; Tho' fortune's great queen fhould load him with pence,

He'll ne'er reach the market an hundred years hence.

The rich bawling lawyer, who by fools wrangling ftrife,

Can fpin out a fuit to the end of a life;

A fuit which the client does wear out in flav'ry, Whilft the pleader makes confcience a cloak for his knav'ry;

Tho' he boasts of his cunning, and brags of his fenfe,

He'll be non eft inventus an hundred years hence.

The plush coated quack, who, his fees to enlarge, Kills people by licence, and at their own charge; He builds up fair structures with ill gotten wealth, By the dregs of a pifs pot, and ruins of health: By the treafures of health he pretends to difpenf,e He'll be turn'd into mummy an hundred years hence.