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SONG,

IN KING ARTHUR.

TWO daughters of this aged stream are we; And both our fea-green locks have comb'd for thee;

Come bathe with us an hour or two,

Come naked in, for we are fo:

What danger from a naked foe?

Come bathe with us, come bathe and fhare,
What pleasures in the floods appear ;
We'll beat the waters till they bound,
And circle round, around, around,

And circle round, around.

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SONGS TO BRITANNIA,

IN KING ARTHUR.

SONG I.

YE bluftering brethren of the skies,
Whofe breath has ruffled all the watry plain,
Retire, and let Britannia rife,

In triumph o'er the main.

Serene and calm, and void of fear,
The Queen of Islands must appear:
Serene and calm, as when the Spring
The new created world began,
And birds on boughs did foftly fing
Their peaceful homage paid to man;
While Eurus did his blafts forbear,
In favour of the tender year.
Retreat, rude winds, retreat

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To hollow rocks, your ftormy feat;
There fwell your lungs, and vainly, vainly

threat.

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SONG II.

For folded flocks, on fruitful plains,
The fhepherd's and the farmer's gains,
Fair Britain all the world outvies;
And Pan, as in Arcadia, reigns,

Where pleasure mixt with profit lies.

Though Jafon's fleece was fam'd of old,
The British wool is growing gold;

No mines can more of wealth fupply;
It keeps the peafant from the cold,
And takes for kings the Tyrian dye.

SONG III.

Fairest isle, all ifles excelling,
Seat of pleasures and of loves;
Venus here will chufe her dwelling,
And forfake her Cyprian groves.

Cupid from his favourite nation,
Care and envy will remove;
Jealoufy, that poifons paffion,
And despair, that dies for love.

Gentle murmurs, fweet complaining,
Sighs, that blow the fire of love;
Soft repulfes, kind disdaining,
Shall be all the pains you prove.

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Every fwain fhall

pay his duty,

prove;

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Grateful every nymph fhall

And as these excel in beauty,

Those fhall be renown'd for love.

SONG OF JEALOUSY,

IN LOVE TRIUMPHANT.

WHAT ftate of life can be fo bleft
As love, that warms a lover's breast?
Two fouls in one, the fame defire
To grant the blifs, and to require!

But if in heaven a hell we find, 'Tis all from thee,

O Jealoufy!

'Tis all from thee,

O Jealoufy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,

Thou tyrant of the mind!

All other ills, though sharp they prove,

Serve to refine, and perfect love:

In abfence, or unkind difdain,

Sweet hope relieves the lover's pain.
But, ah! no cure but death we find,
To fet us free

From Jealoufy:

O Jealoufy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,

Thou tyrant of the mind'

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