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Lord HENRY and KATHARINE.

IN

I.

ancient times, in Britain's isle,

Lord Henry well was known,
Nor knight in all the land more fam'd,
Or more deferv'd renown;

His thoughts on honour always run,
He ne'er cou'd bow to love,

No nymph in all the land had charms
His frozen heart to move.

II.

Amongst the nymphs where Kath'rine came, The fairest face she shows,

She was as bright as morning-fun,

And sweeter than a rose:
Although she was of mean degree,
She daily conquests gains;
For ne'er a youth who her beheld,
Escap'd her powerful chains.

III.

But foon her eyes their luftre loft,
Her cheek grew pale and wan,
A pining feiz'd her lovely form,
And cures were all in vain :
The sickness was to all unknown
That did the fair one wafte,
Her time in fighs and floods of tears,
And broken flumbers past.

IV.

Once in a dream fhe cry'd aloud,
Oh Henry, I'm undone !
Oh cruel fate! oh wretched maid!

Thy love must ne'er be known!

Such is the fate of womankind,

They must the truth conceal,
I'll die ten thousand thousand deaths,
Ere I my love reveal.

V.

A tender friend that watch'd the fair

To Henry hy'd away.

My Lord, fays fhe, we've found the cause Of Kath'rine's quick decay:

She in a dream the fecret told,

Till now no mortal knew: Alas! fhe now expiring lies, And dies for love of you!

VI. :

The gen'rous Henry's foul was touch'd, His heart began to flame,

Ah, poor unhappy maid! he cry'd,

Yet I am not to blame.

Ah Kath'rine! too too modest maid,
Thy love I never knew,

I'll ease your pain: and swift as wind
To her bedfide he flew.

VII.

Awake! awake! he fondly cry'd,
Awake! awake! my dear;
If I had only guefs'd your love,
You ne'er had fhed a tear :
'Tis Henry calls, complain no more,
Renew thy wonted charms;

I come to fave thee from despair,
And take thee to my arms.

VIII.

These words reviv'd the dying fair,
She rais'd her drooping head,
And gazing on the long-lov'd youth,
She started from the bed.

Around his neck her arms fhe flung,

In ecstasy, and cried,

Will you be kind? Will you indeed?
My love!—and fo fhe died.

The Milking-pail.

I.

YE nymphs and filvan gods,

That love green fields and woods,

When spring newly born herself does adorn
With flowers and blooming buds :

Come fing in the praise, while flocks do graze
On yonder pleasant vale,

Of those that chose to milk their ewes,
And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,
To carry the milking-pail.

II.

You goddess of the morn,
With blushes you adorn,

And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare
A concert on each green thorn:

The blackbird and thrush, on every bush,
And the charming nightingale,

In merry vein, their throats do strain,

To entertain the jolly train

Of those of the milking-pail.

III.

When cold bleak winds do roar,

And flowers will spring no more,

The fields that were seen so pleasant and green, With winter's all candied o'er.

See how the town-lass looks with her white face, And her lips fo deadly pale?

But it is not fo with those that go

Thro' froft and fnow, with cheeks that glow,
And carry the milking-pail.

IV.

The miss of courtly mold,

Adorn'd with pearl and gold,

With washes and paint her skin does so taint,
She's wither'd before she's old:

While the of commode puts on a cart-load,
And with cushions plumps her tail.

What joys are found in rushy ground,

Young, plump and round, nay, sweet and found, Of those of the milking-pail.

V.

You girls of Venus game,

That venture health and fame,

In practising feats, with cold and heats,
Make lovers grow blind and lame :
If men were so wife to value the prize
Of wares most fit for sale,

What store of beaux would daub their cloaths,
To fave a nofe, by following of those

Who carry the milking-pail?

VI.

The country-lad is free
From fears and jealousie,

Whilft upon the green he is often seen
With his lafs upon his knee;

With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,
And fwears she'll never grow ftale :

But the London-lafs, in every place,
With brazen face defpifes the grace
Of those of the milking-pail.

PHILLIS, defpise not.

I.

PHILLIS, defpife not your faithful lover,

Play not the tyrant, because you are fair; Beauty will fade, my charming maid,

Juft as the lily, my beautiful Philly, Cease to prove coy, smile on the boy, Grant him the bleffing he longs to enjoy.

II.

Crowns are but trifles, compar'd with my Philly: Who can behold her, and not be enflav'd?

Angel divine! wert thou but mine;

Pity my story, I laugh at all glory,

Here I proteft, on thy dear breast,

With thee in a cottage I'd think myself bleft.

Drink while ye can.

I.

LET's drink, my friends, while here we live,

The fleeting moments as they pass

This filent admonition give,

T'improve our time, and push the glass.

II.

When once we've ent'red Charon's boat,
Farewell to drinking, joys divine,

There's not a drop to weet our throat,
The grave's a cellar void of wine.

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