STANFORD LIBRARY

A

COLLECTION

OF

CHOICE SONGS

When we behold her angel face,
Or when the fings with heavenly grace,
In what we hear and what we fee,
How ravishing's the harmony!

No charms like Celia's voice furprife,
Except the mufic of her eyes.

LANSDOWN.

VOLUME III.

A

SONG I.

NYMPH of the plain,

By a jolly young swain,

By a jolly young swain,

Was addrefs'd to be kind :

But relentless I find

To his prayers she appear'd,
Tho' himself he endear'd,

In a manner fo foft, fo engaging and sweet,
As foon might perfuade her his passion to meet.

How much he ador'd her,
How oft he implor'd-her,
How oft he implor'd her,

I cannot express;

But he lov'd to excefs,

And swore he would die,

If she would not comply,

In a manner so soft, so engaging and sweet,

As foon might persuade her his passion to meet.

While blushes like roses,
Which nature composes,
Which nature composes,
Vermilion'd her face,

With an ardor and grace,
Which her lover improv'd,

When he found he had mov'd,

In a manner so soft, fo engaging and sweet,
As foon might persuade her his passion to meet.

When wak'd from the joy,
Which their fouls did employ,
Which their fouls did employ,
From her ruby warm lips,
Thousand odours he fips,
At the fight of her eyes,
He faints and he dies,

In a manner fo foft, so engaging and sweet,
As foon might persuade her his passion to meet.

But how they shall part,

Now becomes all the smart,
Now becomes all the smart,

Till he vow'd to his fair,
That to ease his own care,
He would meet her again,
And till then be in pain,

In a manner fo foft, so engaging and sweet,
As foon might persuade her his passion to meet.

SEN

SONG II.

END home my long ftray'd eyes to me, Which ah! too long have dwelt on thee; But if from thee they've learn'd fuch ill,

To sweetly smile,

And then beguile,

Keep the deceivers, keep them still.

Send home my harmless heart again,
Which no unworthy thought could ftain;
But if it has been taught by thine,
To forfeit both,

Its word and oath,

Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet fend me home my heart and eyes,
That I may fee and know thy lies,
And laugh one day perhaps when thou
Shalt grieve for one

Thy love will scorn,

And prove as false as thou art now.

SONG III.

WHILST I fondly view the charmer,

Thus the god of love I fue,

Gentle Cupid, pray difarm her,
Cupid, if you love me do:
Of a thousand sweets bereave her,
Rob her neck, her lips, her eyes,
The remainder ftill will leave her
Power enough to tyrannize.

Shape and feature, flame and passion
Still in every breast will move,
More is fupererogation,

Mere idolatry of love:

You may dress a world of Chloes
In the beauties she can spare;

Hear him, Cupid, who no foe is
To your altars, or the fair.

Foolish mortal, pray be easy,
Angry Cupid made reply,

Do Florella's charms displease you?
Die then, foolish mortal, die :
Fancy not that I'll deprive her
Of the captivating store;
Shepherd, no, I'll rather give her
Twenty thousand beauties more.

Were Florella proud and four,
Apt to mock a lover's care;
Juftly then you'd pray that power
Shou'd be taken from the fair:
But tho' I spread a blemish o'er her,
No relief in that you'll find;
Still fond fhepherd, you'll adore her
For the beauties of her mind.

SONG IV.

'EN years, like Troy, my ftubborn heart, Withstood th' affault of fond defire :

But now, alas! I feel a fmart,

Poor I, like Troy, am fet on fire.

With care we may a pile secure,

And from all common sparks defend :

But oh! who can a house secure,

When the celeftial flames defcend?

Thus was I fafe, till from your eyes

Destructive fires are brightly given; Ah! who can fhun the warm surprise, When lo! the lightning comes from heaven.

SONG V.

WHILST I gaze on Chloe trembling,

Straight her eyes my fate declare;

When she smiles I fear diffembling,
When she frowns I then despair.
Jealous of fome rival lover,

If a wand'ring look fhe give;
Fain I would refolve to leave her,
But can fooner cease to live.

Why should I conceal my paffion,
Or the torments I endure?
I will disclose my inclination :
Awful distance yields no cure.
Sure it is not in her nature,
To be cruel to her flave;

She is too divine a creature
To destroy what she can save.

Happy's he whose inclination

Warms but with a gentle heat;
Never mounts to raging paffion,
Love's a torment if too great.
When the storm is once blown over,
Soon the ocean quiet grows;

But a conftant faithful lover

Seldom meets with true repose.