Fifth Act.

The last act now is wrought fo high, That thus it crowns the lover's joy; She does no more his passion fhun, He straight into her arms does run: The curtain falls, the play is done.

FANNY fair.

I.

TO Fanny fair could I impart
The caufe of all my wo!

That beauty which has won my heart,
She scarcely seems to know:
Unskill'd in the art of womankind,

Without design she charms;

How can those sparkling eyes be blind, Which every bosom warms?

II.

She knows her power is all deceit,
The conscious blushes shows,
Those blushes to the eye more sweet
Than th' op'ning budding rofe :

Yet the delicious fragrant rose,
That charms the fense so much,
Upon a thorny brier grows,

And wounds with ev'ry touch.

III.

At first when I beheld the fair,
With raptures I was bleft;
But as I would approach more near,
At once I lost my reft;

Th' enchanting fight, the sweet surprise, Prepare me for my doom;

One cruel look from those bright eyes Will lay me in my tomb.

The Bottle preferr❜d.

I.

PROUD woman, I fcorn you,
Brifk wine's my delight,

I'll drink all the day,

And I'll revel all night.

II.

As great as a monarch,

The moments I pass,

The bottle's my globe,

And my fceptre's the glass.

III.

The table's my throne,

And the tavern's my court,

The drawer's my subject,
And drinking's my sport.

IV.

Here's the chief of all joy,
Here's a mistress ne'er coy ;

Dear cure of all forrows,

And life of all blifs :

I'm a king when I hug you,
But more when I kiss.

Tippling JOHN.

I.

S tippling John was jogging on,
Upon a riot-night,

With tottering pace, and fiery face,

Sufpicious of high flight;

The guards, who took him, by his look,

For fome chief fiery-brand,

Afk'd, whence he came what was his name? Who are you? Stand, friend, stand.

II.

I'm going home, from meeting come :
Ay, fays one, that's the cafe;

Some meeting he has burnt, you see

The flame's ftill in his face.

John thought it time to purge his crime,

And faid, my chief intent

Was to affwage my thirsty rage,

I' th' meeting that I meant.

III.

Come, friend, be plain, you trifle in vain,

Says one, pray let us know,

That we may find how you're inclin'd,

Are you high church or low?

John said to that, I'll tell you what,

To end debates and strife,

All I can say, this is the way
I fteer my course of life.

IV.

I ne'er to Bow nor Burgess go,

To steeple-house nor hall,

The brisk bar-bell beft fuits my zeal

With gentlemen, d'ye call?

Guess then, am I low church or high,
From that tow'r, or no steeple,
Whose merry toll exalts the foul,
And must make high-flown people.

V.

The guards came on, and look'd at John,
With countenance most pleasant,
By whisper round they all foon found
He was no damag'd peasant.

Thus while John ftood the best he cou'd,
Expecting their decifion;

Damn him, says one, let him begone,
He's of our own religion.

WOULD

BELINDA.

I.

fate to me Belinda give, me

With her alone I'd chufe to live,

Variety I'd ne'er require,

Nor a greater, nor a greater,

Nor a greater bliss desire.

II.

My charming nymph, if you can find Amongst the race of human kind, A man that loves you more than I, I'll refign you, I'll resign you, I'll refign you, though I die.

III.

Let my Belinda fill my arms

With all her beauty, all her charms;

With fcorn and pity I'd look down

On the glories, on the glories,

On the glories of a crown.

ΤΗ

Beauty and Rigour.

I.

HE nymph that undoes me is fair and unkind, No less than a wonder by nature design'd; She's the grief of my heart, and the joy of my eye, And the cause of a flame that never can die.

And the caufe, &c.

II.

Her mouth, from whence wit ftill obligingly flows,
Has the beautiful blush, and the smell of the rose :
Love and destiny both attend on her will,
She wounds with a look, with a frown she can kill.
She wounds, &c.

III.

The defperate lover can hope no redress,

Where Beauty and Rigour are both in excess ;

In Silvia they meet, so unhappy am I,

Who fees her must love, who loves her must die. Who fees her, &c.

The Rival.

1.

F all the torment, all the care,

OF

By which our lives are curst,
Of all the forrows that we bear,

A rival is the worst.
By partners in another kind
Afflictions easier grow,

In love alone we hate to find

Companions in our wo.