But then old Noll was one in ten,
And fought him more than other men.
Our shepherd too, with like attention,
May meet the female fiends we mention.
He rofe one morn at break of day,
And near the field in ambush lay:
When lo! a brace of girls appears,
The third, a matron much in years.
Smiling, amidst the pease, the sinners
Sate down to cull their future dinners;
And, caring little who might own them,
Made free as though themselves had fown them.
'Tis worth a fage's obfervation
How love can make a jest of passion.
Anger had forc'd the fwain from bed,
His early dues to love unpaid!
And love, a god that keeps a pother,
And will be paid one time or other,
Now banish'd anger out of door;
And claim'd the debt withheld before.
If anger bid our youth revile,
Love form'd his features to a fiile:
And knowing well 'twas all grimace,
To threaten with a smiling face,
He in few words express'd his mind—
And none would deem them much unkind.
The amorous youth, for their offence,
Demanded instant recompence:
That recompence from each, which fhame
Forbids a bathful Muse to name.
Yet, more this fentence to discover,
'Twas what Bet ** grants her lover,
When he, to make the ftrumpet willing,
Has spent his fortune- to a fhilling.
Each stood a while, as 'twere fufpended,
And loth to do, what-each intended.
At length, with soft pathetic fighs,
The matron, bent with age, replies
'Tis vain to strive-juftice, I know,
And our ill ftars, will have it fo-
But let my tears your wrath affuage,
And fhew fome deference for age!
I from a diftant village came,
Am old, God knows, and fomething lame;
And if we yield, as yield we must,
Difpatch my crazy body first.
Our fhepherd, like the Phrygian fwain,
When circled round on Ida's plain,
With goddeffes he stood fufpended,
And Pallas's grave fpeech was ended,
Own'd what she ask'd might be his duty;
But paid the compliment to beauty.
ODE to be performed by Dr. BRETTLE, and a Chorus of HALES-OWEN CITIZENS.
The Inftrumental Part, a Viol d' Amour.
AIR by the DOCTOR.
WAKE! I fay, awake good people!
And be for once alive and gay;
Come let's be merry; ftir the tipple;
How can you fleep,
Whilst I do play? how can you sleep, &c.
CHORUS of CITIZENS.,
Pardon, O! pardon, great musician !
On drowsy fouls fome pity take!
For wondrous hard is our condition,
To drink thy beer,
Thy ftrains to hear;
And keep awake!
SOLO by the DOCTOR.
Hear but this ftrain-'twas made by Handel,
A wight of skill, and judgment deep!
Zoonters they 're gone-Sal, bring a candle-
No, here is one, and he 's afleep.
DUETTE.
Dr.-How could they go
Whilst I do play?
Sal. How could they go !
AND PLUTU S.
WHEN Celia, Love's eternal foe,
To rich old Gomez firft was marry'd;
And angry Cupid came to know,
His fhafts had err'd, his bow miscarry'd; He figh'd, he wept, he hung his head,
On the cold ground, full fad, he laid him; When Plutus, there by fortune led,
In this defponding plight furvey'd him.
And fure, he cry'd, you 'll own at last
Your boafted power by mine exceeded:
Say, wretched boy, now all is past,
How little the your efforts heeded.
If with fuccefs you would affail,
Gild, Youngfter, doubly gild your arrows: Little the feather'd fhafts avail,
Though wing'd from Mamma's doves and spar
What though each reed, each arrow grew, Where Venus bath'd herself; depend on 't, "Twere more for ufe, for beauty too,
A diamond sparkled at the end on 't. Peace, Plutus, peace!-the boy reply'd Were not my arts by your's infested,
I could each other power deride,
And rule this circle, unmolested.
See yonder pair! no worldly views
In Chloe's generous breast refided: Love bade her the spruce valet chufe,
And the by potent love was guided. For this! fhe quits her golden dreams,
In her gilt coach no more she ranges And her rich crimson, bright with gems,
For cheeks impearl'd with tears, fhe changes.
Though fordid Celia own'd your power,
Think not fo monftrous my difgrace is:
You gain'd this nymph-that very hour
I gain'd a fcore in different places.
EPILOGUE to the Tragedy of CLEONE?
WELL, ladies-fo much for the tragic ftile
And now the custom is to make you smile.
To make us fimile !-methinks I hear you fay---
Why, who can help it, at fo ftrange a play?
The Captain gone three years!—and then to blame
The faultlefs conduct of his virtuous dame !
My ftars!-what gentle belle would think it treason,
When thus provok'd, to`give the brute some reason?
Out of my house!--this night, forfooth depart!
A modern wife had faid-" With all my
But think not, haughty Sir, I 'll go alone!
Order your coach-conduct me fafe to town-
Give me my jewels, wardrobe, and my
And
pray take care my pin-money be paid."
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