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III.

Should a king be my rival in her I adore,

He fhould offer his treasure in vain :

O, let me alone to be happy and poor,

And give me my Phyllis again!

Let Phyllis be mine, and but ever be kind, I could to a defart with her be confin'd,

And envy no monarch his reign.

IV.

Alas! I difcover too much of

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my love, And the too well knows her own power! She makes me each day a new martyrdom prove, And makes me grow jealous each hour: But let her each minute torment my poor mind, I had rather love Phyllis, both false and un

kind,

Than ever be freed from her

power.

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SONG, IN TWO PARTS,

IN THE SECOND PART OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA.

I.

He. How unhappy a lover am I,

All

While I figh for my Phyllis in vain ; my hopes of delight

Are another man's right,

Who is happy, while I am in pain! 5

II.

She. Since her honour allows no relief,

But to pity the pains which you bear, "Tis the best of your fate,

In a hopeless eftate,

To give o'er, and betimes to despair.

III.

He. I have tried the falfe med'cine in vain ; 11 For I wish what I hope not to win:

From without, my defire

Has no food to its fire;

But it burns and confumes me within.

IV.

She. Yet, at least, 'tis a pleasure to know
That you are not unhappy alone:
For the nymph you adore

Is as wretched, and more;

And counts all your fufferings her

own.

V.

He. O ye gods, let me fuffer for both;
At the feet of my Phyllis I'll lie:
I'll refign up my breath,

And take pleasure in death,

To be pitied by her when I die.

VI.

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She. What her honour denied

you in life,

In her death fhe will give to your

love.

Such a flame as is true

After fate will renew,

For the fouls to meet clofer above. 30

SONG OF THE SEA-FIGHT,

IN AMBOYNA.

WHO ever faw a noble fight,

That never view'd a brave sea-fight!
Hang up your bloody colours in the air,

Up with your fights, and your nettings pre

pare ;

Your merry mates cheer, with a lufty bold

fpright,

5

Now each man his brindice, and then to the

fight.

St. George, St. George, we cry,

The shouting Turks reply.

Oh now it begins, and the gun-room grows

hot,

Ply it with culverin and with small shot;

Hark, does it not thunder? no,

roar,

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'tis the guns

The neighbouring billows are turned into gore;
Now each man muft refolve to die,
For here the coward cannot fly.
Drums and trumpets toll the knell,
And culverins the paffing bell.

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Now, now they grapple, and now board amain; Blow up the hatches, they're off all again: Give them a broadfide, the dice run at all, Down comes the maft and yard, and tacklings fall;

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She grows giddy now, like blind Fortune's

wheel,

She finks there, fhe finks, he turns up her keel. Who ever beheld fo noble a fight,

As this fo brave, fo bloody fea-fight!

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