But, foon as things are fet to rights,

He tramples on its laws.

The governor, by liberal arts,

Rude Indians doth reduce;

Se a cheating, &c.

But, e'er he half reforms their hearts,

He leaves them n'er a Sous.

So a-cheating, &c.

The courtier, for his country dear,

His care doth neʼer relax;

But, e'er he long the helm doth fteer,

He robs it by a tax.

So a cheating, &c.

The patriot, with a flaming zeal,

Will fwear his country's loft;

But, once let Fortune turn the wheel,

The husband cheats his loving wife,

And to a mistress goes ;

While he again, to ease her life,

Caroufes with the beaux.

So a-cheating, &c.

The tenant doth the steward nick,

(So low this art we find ;)

The Steward doth his lordship trick,

And he tricks all mankind.

So a-cheating, &c.

One clafs there is, to whofe fair lot,

No cheating art should fall,

They're clergy call'd;-but, when they do't,

They cheat us worst of all.

So a-cheating, &c.

Thus all the world a cheating goes,

For pleasure or for pelf;

But, in the end,, experience fhews,

The cheater cheats himself.

So a cheating we'll not go, not go,—not go;
So a cheating we'll not go.

SONG 31.

THE GENERAL TOA S T.

HERE's to the maiden of bafhful fifteen,

And, Here's to the Widow of fifty;

Here's to the bold and extravagant queen,
And, Here's to the housewife that's thrifty.
Fet the toaft pafs, drink to the lafs,

I warrant fhe'll prove an excufe for the glass.

Here's to the maiden whofe dimples we prize,

And, likewife, to her that has none, Sir; And, Here's to the maid with a pair of black eyes, And, Here's to her that's but one, Sir.

Let the toaft pafs, &c.

Here's to the maid with a bofom as fnow,
And, to her that is brown as a berry;
And, Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,
And, Here's to the girl that's merry.

Let the toaft pafs, &c.

Let her be clumfy, or let her be neat,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
But fill the pint-bumper up to the brim,
And let us e'en toaft them together.

Let the toaft pafs, &c.

SONG 32

WHEN firft, by fond Damon, Flavella was feen, He flightly regarded her air or her mein;

The charms of her mind he alone did commend, Not warm'd as a lover, but cool as a friend':

From friendship (not paffion) his raptures did move, And the fwain bragg'd his heart was a stranger to love.

New charms he discover'd, as more she was known, Her face grew a wonder, her tafte was his own; Her manners were gentle, her fense was refin'd, And oh what dear virtues beam'd forth in her

mind;

Yet ftill for the fanction of friendship he ftrove, 'Till a figh gave the omen and fhew'd it was love.

Now, proud to be conquer'd, he fighs for the Fair, Grows dull to all pleafure; but being with her He's mute, while his heart-ftrings are ready to break, For the fear of offending forbids him to fpeak; But wanders a willing example to prove, "That friendship with woman is fister to love."

A lover, thus conquer'd, can ne'er give offence; Not a dupe to her fmiles, but a flave to her fense: His paffion, nor wrinkles, nor age can allay,

Since founded on that which can never decay; And time, that will beauty's fhort empire remeve, Increafing her reafon, increafes his love.

SONG 33.

Sung in SHAKESPEARE'S JUBILEE.
YE Warwickshire lads, and ye laffes,

See what at our Jubilee paffes;
Come revel away, rejoice, and be glad,
For the lad of all lads was a Warwickshire lad,
Warwickshire lads, all be glad,

For the lad of all lads, &c.

Be proud of the charms of your country,
Where Nature has lavish'd her bounty,

Where much she has given, and fome to be fpar'd,
For the bard of all bards was a Warwickshire bard,
Warwickshire bard, never pair'd, &c.

Each fhire has its different pleasures,

Each fhire has its different treasures,
But to rare Warwickshire all must submit,
For the wit of all wits was a Warwickshire wit,
Warwickshire wit, how he writ! &c.

Old Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden,
And half a score more we took pride in ;
Of famous Will Congreve we boast too the skill,
But the Will of all Wills was a Warwickshire Will,
Warwickshire Will, matchlefs ftill! &c.

Our Shakespeare compar'd is to no man,
Nor Frenchman, nor Grecian, nor Roman,