Their fwan are all geefe to the Avon's sweet swan, And the man of all men was a Warwickshire man,

Warwickshire man, Avon's fwan, &c.

As ven fon is very inviting,

To fteal it our bard took delight in :

To make his friends merry he never was lag,
And the wag of all wags was a Warwickshire wag,
Warwickshire wag, ever brag, &c.

There never was feen fuch a creature,

Of all the was worth he robb'd Nature :

He took all her fmiles, and he took all her grief, And the thiefofall thieves was a Warwickshire thief, Warwickshire thief, he's the chief,

For the thief, &c.

་བ་འ

SONG 34.

LOVE IN DISGUISE

AT Totterdown-hill there dwelt an old pair,

And it may be they dwell there ftill;
Much riches indeed didn't fall to their fhare,
They kept a fmall farm and a mill:

But, fully content with what they did get,
They knew not of guile or of arts;

One daughter they had, and her name it was Bet,
And she was the pride of their hearts.

Nut-brown were her locks, her fhape it was ftraight, Her eyes were as black as a floe,

Her teeth were milk-white, full fmart was her gait, And fleek was her fkin as a doe:

All thick were the clouds, and the rain it did pour, No bit of true blue could be fpy'd;

A child wet and cold came and knock'd at the door, Its mam it had loft, and it cry'd,

Young Bet was as mild as the mornings of May,
The babe fhe hugg'd close to her breaft;
She chaff'd him all o'er, and he fmil'd as he lay,
She kifs'd him and lull'd him to reft:

But who do you think she had got for her prize?
Why, Love that fly master of arts;

No fooner he wak'd but he dropt his difguife,
And fhew'd her his wings and his darts.

Quoth he, I am Love, but be not afraid,
Though all I make shake at my will;
So good and fo kind have you been, my fair maid,
No harm fhall you feel from my skill;

My mother ne'er dealt with fuch fondness by me;
A friend you fhall find in me ftill:

Take my quiver and fhoot, and be greater than fhe, The Venus of Totterdown-hill.

SO'NG 35.

COME let's hae mair wine in,

Bacchus hates repining,

Venus loes nae dwining,

Let's be blyth and free : Away with dull, Here t'ye, Sir, Your miftrefs, Robie, gi'es her, We'll drink her health wi' pleasure, Wha's belov'd by thee.

Peggy a dainty lafs is:
Come let's join our glaffes,

And refresh our haufes,

With a health to thee.

Let coofs their cash be clinking,
Be ftatesmen tint in thinking,
While we with love and drinking,
Gie our cares the lie.

SONG 36.

Sung by MRS SMITH in the DESERTER.
SOME how my Spindle I mislaid,

And loft it underneath the grafs ;
Damon advancing, bow'd his head,
And said, What seek you pretty lass:
A little love when urg'd with care,
Oft leads a heart, and leads it far.

Oft leads a heart, &c.

'Twas paffing by yon spreading Oak,
That I my Spindle loft juft now;
His knife then kindly Damon took,
And from the tree he cut a bough;
A little love when urg'd with care,
Will lead a heart and lead it far.

A little love, &c.

Thus did the youth his time employ,
While me he tenderly beheld;
He talk'd of love, I leap'd for joy,
For ah, my heart did fondly yield:
A little love when urg'd with care,
Will lead a heart, and lead it far.

A little love, &c.

SONG 37.

By Lord LYTTLETON.

WHEN Delia on the grove appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears;
I would approach, but dare not move;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When'er fhe fpeaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but her's can hear,
No other's wit but her's approve;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

If fhe fome other fwain commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His inftant enemy I prove;

Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When fhe's abfent, I no more Delight in all that pleas'd before; The cleareft ftream or fhadieft grove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When fond of pow'r, of beauty vain, Her nets fhe spreads for ev'ry fwain, I ftrove to hate, but vainly ftrove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love.