But with people's malice to trifle,

And to fet us all on a foot; The author of this is a trifle,

And his fong is a trifle to boot.

SONG LXVII.

FROM grave leffons and restraint,

I'm ftole out to revel here;

Yet I tremble and I faint,

In the middle of the fair.

Oh! would fortune in my way

Throw a lover kind and gay;

Now's the time he foon might move A young heart unus'd to love.

Shall I venture? No, no, no,
Shall I from the danger go?
Oh

no, no, no, no, no,

I must not try, I cannot fly.
I must not, durft not, cannot fly.

Help me, nature, help me, art;
Why should I deny my part?
If a lover will pursue ;
Like the wifeft let me do;
I will fit him, if he's true,
If he's falfe, I'll fit him too.

SONG LXVIII.

Women and Wine.

SOME fay women are like the sea,

Some the waves, and fome the rocks, Some the rose that soon decays,

Some the weather, some the cocks ; But if you'll give me leave to tell, There's nothing can be compar'd so well,

As wine, wine, women and wine,

They run in a parallel.

Women are witches when they will,
So is wine, fo is wine,
They make the statesman lose his skill,
The foldier, lawyer, and divine;
They put a gigg in the graveft fcull,
And fend their wits to gather wool;
'Tis wine, wine, women and wine,

They run in a parallel.

What is't that makes your face fo pale,
What is't that makes your looks divine,
What makes your courage rife and fall?
Is it not women, is it not wine?
Whence proceed th' inflaming doses,
That fet fire to your noses?

From wine, wine, women and wine,
They run in a parallel.

SONG LXIX.

WOU'D you chufe a wife,

For a happy life?

Leave the court, and the country take,

Where Dolly and Sue, Young Molly and Prue, Follow Roger and John, Whilft harvest goes on, And merrily merrily rake.

Leave the London dames
(Be it spoke to their shames)

To ly in their beds till noon,
Then get up and stretch,
And paint too and patch,
Some widgeon to catch,
Then look at their watch,

And wonder they rose up so soon.

Then coffee and tea,

Both green and bohea,

Are ferv'd to their tables in plate,
Where tattles do run,

As swift as the fun,

Of what they have won,
And who is undone,

By their gaming and fitting up late.

The lass give me here,

Tho' brown as my beer,

That knows how to govern her house,

That can milk her cow,

Or farrow her sow,

Make butter and cheese,

Or gather green pease,

And values fine cloaths not a souse.

This is the girl

Worth rubies and pearl;

A wife that will make a man rich;

We gentlemen need

No quality breed

To fquander away

What taxes wou'd pay;

We care not in faith for fuch.

SONG LXX.

ES I could love, if I could find

YES

A mistress fitted to my mind,
Whom neither gold nor pride could move,
To change her virtue or her love :

Loves to go neat, not to go fine,
Loves for myself, and not for mine;
Not city proud, nor nice and coy,
But full of love, and full of joy :

Not childish young, nor beldame old,

Nor fiery hot, nor icy cold,

Not gravely wife to rule the state,
Not foolish to be pointed at:

Not worldly rich, nor bafely poor,
Nor chaste, nor a reputed whore :
If fuch an one you can discover,
Pray, Sir, intitle me her lover.

SONG LXXI.

QLESS'D as th' immortal gods is he,

BLESS'D

The youth who fondly fits by thee, And hears and fees thee all the while, Softly speak and fweetly smile.

'Twas this bereav'd my foul of rest,
And rais'd fuch tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd in transport toft,
My breath was gone, my voice was loft.

My bofom glow'd; the fubtil flame
Ran quick thro' all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd,
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, funk, and dy'd away.

SONG LXXII.

OU

You may ceafe to complain,

For your fuit is in vain ;
All attempts you can make
But augments her disdain
She bids you give over

While 'tis in your power,

For except her esteem

She can grant you no more:
Her heart has been long fince
Affaulted and won,

Her truth is as lasting

And firm as the fun;

You'll find it more easy

Your paffion to cure,
Than for ever those fruitless

Endeavours endure.