SONG 19. Sung in the DUENNA. GIVE Ifaac the nymph who no beauty can boast, But health and good humour to make her his toaft; If ftreight I don't mind whether flender or fat, And fix fit or four--- We'll ne'er quarrel for that. Whate'er her complexion... I vow I don't care ; If brown-it is lafting---more pleafing if fair: And tho' in her cheeks I no dimples fhould fee, Let her fmile---and each dell is a dimple to me. Let her locks be the reddeft that ever were feen, And her eyes--may be e'en--any colour but green; For in eyes, tho' fo various the luftre and hue, I fwear I've no choice...only let her have two. 'Tis true, I'd difpenfe with a throne on her back, And white teeth I own--are genteeler than black: A little round chin too's a beauty I've heard, But I only defire-- fhe mayn't have a beard. SONG 20. By a Lady of Quality. THE fun his gladfome beams withdrawn, The hills all white with fnow, Leave me dejected and forlorn ; Who can defcribe my woe? But not the fun s warm beams could chear, Nor hills tho' e'er fo green; Unless my Damon fhould To beautify the scene., appear The frozen brooks, and pathlefs vales, Disjoin my love and me; The pining bird his fate bewails, On yonder leafles tree! But, what to me are birds, or brooks, Heavy the lute, and dull the brooks, The Laplander, who, half the year, Nor wishes more for light. But what were light, without my love, The flow'ry meadow, field, or grove, Each moment, from my dear away, Is a long age of pain; O! hafte, and bring him to my arms, Nor let us ever part; My breast fhall beat no more alarms, When I fecure his heart. 'TWAS SONG 21. THE NUT-BROWN MAID. WAS in the bloom of May, When odours breathe around, When nymphs are blyth and gay, And all with mirth abound; That happily I ftray'd To view my fleecy care, Where I beheld a maid, No mortal e'er fo fair ; No mortal e'er so fair. She wore upon her head A bonnet made of ftraw. Her locks of nut brown hue Around her flender waist A fcrip embroider'd hung, The lute her fingers grac'd, That warbles through the vale. Not long I ftood to view, Struck with her heav'nly air, And caught the yielding fair. SONG 22. YOUNG Jockey, who teiz'd me a twelve-month or more, Now bolder is grown than was mortal before; He whispers fuch things as no virgin fhould hear, And he preffes my lips with a warmth I can't bear. With ftories of love he would foften my mind, And his eyes fpeak a temper to mischief inclin'd; But I vow not a moment I'll truft him alone, And when nex the grows rude I will bid him begone. Of honour and truth not a word has he spoke, And his actions declare he thinks virtue a joke; He fhall find his mistake if he ventures to try : For, than yield on such terms, oh! I rather would die.. With no creature befide he fuch freedom dare take; Yet the handfome and witty he quits for my fake: But how can I think that he loves me the best? Or how can I love him who'd break all my reft? Oh! Jockey, reform, nor be foolish again, Left you lofe a fond heart you fhall never regain: If you change your behaviour, and to church chufe to go, I'll forgive all that's paft, and will never fay No. Он SONG 23. PATTY OF THE HILL. OHI Venus, queen of foft delights, Accept a fuppliant's pray'r, Who wishes to attend the rights In which thy vot'ries share : While he his unfeign'd love declares |