NEW POEMS, SONGS, PROLOGUES and EPILOGUES. Never before Printed.  
Written by THOMAS DUFFETT, And Set by The most Eminent Musicians about the Town.  
Qui fugit Molam fugit Farinam.  
LONDON: Printed for Nicholas Wolf at the End of Breadstreet, next to the Red Lion in Cheapside. 1676.   

With Permission.  
Roger L'Estrange. September 30. 1675.   

THE DEDICATION TO CELIA.  
THe suffering Soldier, that with sliGhted prayer,  
Has Often sought His just Arrears of war,  
Shows his Maimed boDy to the gazing Crowd,  
ProclAims his services and Wants aloud;  
Is pitied and whenever the story's named,  
The valour's praised, and the iNjustice damned;  
So all by whoM Amintor'S Love is read,  
Will praise his Faith and blaMe the cruel Maid.  
While by this Name secured, more close tO veil  
YouR blushing guilt, Against yourself yoU rail;  
PerhaPs the fRequeNt cheat may Make you kind,  
And with your language Change yOur cruel miNd.  
Strong NatUre does Loues' secret Paths oRdain,  
But Powerful custom doeS o'er NAture reign.  
And those coMplaints wHich singly wanted Art,  
May thus unitEd, melt yoUr frozen heart.  
Swift time maY bring the blessings Chance denied,  
And we May glory in thoSe cHains we hide.  
Pardon mY daring hopeS—  
And do Not what your Beauty mAde despIse;  
If to onE soaring thought— My faNcy rise,  
It Was inspired— By Celia's ch Arming eyeS.  
T. D.   

TO THE READERS.  

I.  
You gentle Readers, whose lost coin and time,  
Are richly paid with warbling Tune and Rhyme,  
Look up— my gingling Bells begin to chime.   

II.  
Like sated wenchers, when the charge comes on▪  
Don't the poor suffering Lass disown,  
That you gallanted so about the Town.   

III.  
Fierce Critics, that Amboyna Justice Act,  
By whom each Line's to horrid postures racked;  
Write what you'd have me say, I'll own the fact.   

IV.  
I'm hardened in my errors and should be,  
As known Buffoons are, from correction free,  
Your witty malice would be lost on me.   

V.  
The old debauch, still boldly walks the street,  
Lifts his half nose and shakes his palsyed feet,  
While modest sinners fly from all they meet.   

VI  
Yet fear not, Mr. Wolf, the Book will go,  
When Nature's fairest works neglected grow.  
Monsters maintain the Master of the show.    

NEW POEMS, Songs, Prologues and Epilogues.  

Song to the Irish Tune,  

I.  
SInce Caelia's my foe,  
To a Desert I'll go,  
Where some River  
For ever  
Shall Echo my woe:   

The Trees shall appear  
More relenting than her;  
In the morning  
Adorning  
Each leaf with a tear.   

When I make my sad moan  
To the Rocks all alone,  
From each hollow  
Will follow  
Some pitiful groan.   

But with silent Disdain  
She requites all my pain,  
To my mourning  
Returning  
No answer again.   

II.  
Ah caelia adieu,  
When I cease to pursue,  
You'll discover  
No Lover  
Was ever so true.   

Your sad Shepherd flies  
From those dear cruel eyes,  
Which not seeing  
His being  
Decays, and he dies.   

Yet 'tis better to run  
To the Fate we can't shun,  
Then for ever  
To strive, for  
What cannot be won.   

What ye gods have I done,  
That Amyntor alone  
Is so treated  
And hated  
For Loving but one.    

The Complaint.  

ONe Saint with equal and impartial ears,  
The Vows of many several sinners hears:  
Nor is she to the first that Prayed, most kind,  
The truest Zeal, does still most pity find.   

As many Lovers to your shrine repair,  
At your bright Eyes to offer up their Prayer;  
But with unequal pity you reward,  
True Vows are scorned, while Hypocrites are heard.   

So persecutions on the faithful wait,  
While the Apostate thrives in every State.  
Perhaps my sufferings must your power show,  
Love, like Religion must have Martyrs too.   

Once more for mercy to your feet I fly;  
Alas I cannot change, and would not die:  
No Saint in th' other World will pity show,  
To one that never thought their Worship due,  
Nor ever Prayed to any Saint but you.    

Song set by Mr. Marsh junior.  

COme all you pale Lovers that sigh and complain,  
While your beautiful Tyrants but laugh at your pain;  
Come practice with me  
To be happy and free,  
In spite of Inconstancy, Pride or Disdain.  
I see, and I Love, and the Bliss I enjoy,  
No Rival can lessen, nor envy destroy.   

My Mistress so fair is, no Language or Art,  
Can describe her Perfection in every part,  
Her meen's so Gentile,  
With such ease she can kill:  
Each look with new passion she captives my heart.  
I see, etc.  
No Rival, etc.   

Her smiles the kind message of Love from her Eyes,  
When she frowns 'tis from others her Flame to disguise,  
Thus her Scorn or Spite  
I convert to delight,  
As the Bee gathers Honey where ever he flies.  
I see, etc.  
No Rival, etc.   

My Vows she receives from her Lover unknown,  
And I fancy kind answers although I have none.  
How Blessed should I be  
If our Hearts did agree!  
Since already I find so much Pleasure alone.  
I see, and I Love, and the Bliss I enjoy,  
No Rival can lessen, nor Envy destroy.    

To Madam M. H.  
MAdmen we pity, though their crimes we hate,  
And lay the guilt on their too rigid Fate.  
Robbed by your Eyes of Reason and of Sense▪  
Your Beauty may excuse my great offence.  
He that does seriously of sins Repent,  
Unto the Gods appears as Innocent;  
Never was Penitence more true than mine,  
Then Pardon me, for you are all Divine.   

Conditional Love.  

THe sad unhappy Merchant that beholds  
A late tempestuous Ocean gently smile,  
While yet each Wave his wracked Estate infolds,  
And seems to Triumph o'er the wealthy spoil:   

Stands shivering 'twixt hope and fierce despair,  
He fain would hazard all he has once more,  
At once his many losses to repair;  
But first his Cargo does at home ensure:   

So does the sad Fidelio doubting stand,  
While fair Miranda's sparkling eyes he sees,  
Longing to have the Jewel in his hand,  
But loath to trust his heart to Love's false Seas.   

Insulting Fortune, and deluding Love,  
So often have betrayed my easy heart,  
Their fairest shows my Faith can hardly move,  
From the remaining stock of peace to part.   

Yet would I pay an age of sighs and pain,  
Pass all the storms by Fortune raised or Art,  
If you'd ensure I should at last obtain  
Th' valued Treasure of your Love and Heart,   

Let not my Passion be misunderstood,  
To make Conditions does it strength evince:  
The Valiant Soldier that has lost his blood,  
And after been neglected by his Prince;   

Though all his heart's with war and glory filled,  
Till his reward's assured the battle flies,  
That done, none goes more boldly to the field,  
None lives more faithful or more bravely dies.    

To Francelia.  

IN cruelty you greater are,  
Then those fierce Tyrants who decreed,  
The Noblest prisoner ta'en in war,  
Should to their gods a Victim bleed.   

A year of pleasures and delight,  
The happy prisoner there obtained,  
And three whole daiese'r death's long night,  
In power unlimited he reigned.   

To your Victorious Eyes I gave  
My heart a willing Sacrifice;  
A tedious year have been your slave,  
Felt all the pains Hate could devise.   

But two short hours of troubled Bliss,  
For all my sufferings you restore;  
And wretched I must die for this,  
And never never meet you more:   

Never, how dismally it sounds!  
If I must feel eternal pain,  
Close up a while my bleeding wounds,  
And let me have my three day's reign.    

On a Rose taken from Francelia's Breast.  

I.  
POor hapless Emblem of Amyntors' Heart,  
Thy blooming Beauty's overcast;  
Deep shades of grief seem to o'erspread each part,  
Yet still thy fragrant sweets do last.   

II.  
Thou were't not, when my dearest Nymph is kind,  
In all thy Pride so Blest as I,  
She gone my wounded heart thy fate does find,  
So does it droop, and so will die.   

III.  
What joyful blushes did thy leaves adorn!  
How gay! how proudly didst thou swell!  
When in Francelia's charming Bosom worn,  
That Paradise where Gods would dwell.   

VI  
O had my heart thy happy place possessed,  
It never had from thence been torn,  
But like a Phoenix in her spicy nest,  
It still should live and ever burn.   

V.  
No wonder thy perfume so near thy death  
Still lasts, though thy Vermilion's gone,  
Thy sweets were borrowed from her sweeter breath,  
Thy fading colour was thy own.   

VI  
See how my burning sighs thy leaves have dried,  
Where I have sucked thy stolen sweets,  
So does the amorous youth caress his Bride,  
And print hot kisses on her lips.   

VII.  
Hadst thou ungathered fallen, among the rest  
Lost and forgotten thou hadst been,  
Thou hadst not flourished in Francelia's breast,  
Nor been the Subject of my Pen.   

VIII.  
Amber dissolved and beaten Spices smell,  
That Gold is valued most that's proved,  
Coy beauty's lost, but lasting fame will tell  
Their praise that love and are beloved.    

Song set by Mr. Marsh signior.  
THe spring with fresh beauties hath dressed up  
each field,  
And the gardens with sweets and soft music  
are filled,  
The Birds pretty notes to new pleasures invite,  
And Nature herself appears young with delight;  
Sad Strephon sees this, but can be no partaker,  
His Nymph is unkind and he cannot forsake her.  
Amidst all these glories I walk like a shade,  
And adore the bright Nymph by whose Eyes I'm  
betrayed;  
Each moment her shape to my fancy appears,  
I sigh, and I court her to stay with my tears.  
But when my embraces their prisoner would make her,  
Francelia flies off and I cannot o'ertake her.  
Asleep I am happy, for than she seems kind▪  
But some God that does Envy the Blessings I find:  
The embraces, the smiles, O the joys in extreme,  
'Tis Heaven to have her, though but in a dream.  
Disturbs my short sleep that from me he might take her,  
And then she's unkind, yet I cannot forsake her.  
Great Love, whose high power we strive with in vain,  
Let her share in my sighs, or give me her disdain;  
Show her all the delights of a mutual flame,  
The greatness and truth of my Passion proclaim.  
One Arrow of thine to Love's joys would awake her,  
And when my Nymph's kind I will never forsake her.   

To Francelia.  

LOve without hope of Pity who can bear?  
Consuming firebrands in his Bosom wear?  
Always endure Diseases of the mind,  
Still forced to seek what he must never find?  
Pardon me Madam, for I must complain,  
Sure you may hear, though not relieve my pain.   

Those that a glorious Martyrdom pursue,  
When certain and eternal joys in view;  
On their Tormentors cruelty complain,  
And sigh aloud in the beloved flame:  
The short lived fires that round their body's roll,  
Soon end their griefs, but leave their Spirits whole;  
Love ever burns the never dying Soul.  
Condemned to death without hopes of reprieve,  
What they no more can keep with ease they give,  
I bleed and die for you even while I live.  
If Love's requited with such rigid fate,  
What tortures can you find to punish Hate?   

Ah Francelia!  
If in your heart I ne'er must gain a room,  
At least be cunning in the cruel doom:  
Your eyes from your too charming eyes I took,  
My first deep wound was conquered with a look.  
O let me read that fair condemning book,  
Till I have gazed away my panting breath,  
I'd give the world to die so sweet a death.   

Alas! In vain I sigh, in vain I rave,  
Like drowning men in vain my hands I wave,  
And cry to one that can but will not save;  
As thirsty travelers in a sandy plain,  
Call to the scorching Sun for help in vain,  
Which drinks all moisture up but sends no rain.   

When friends or business for my presence stay,  
Love and Francelia call another way;  
My feet move on, my thoughts are fixed on her,  
Dreaming of kindness I shall never hear;  
I know not how, for what, or where I run,  
Till at the window I behold my Sun;  
In vain the envious Casement's shut, alas,  
The dazzling Jewel sparkles through the Case,  
Like beauteous Pictures through a Crystal glass:  
Swifter than Lightning it consumes my heart,  
Leaving no marks on the exterior part.  
At last, at last be kind, O do but prove  
The charming sweets of a successful Love.  
Why should dull custom or cold fear prevent  
Pleasures so sweet, and Joys so innocent?  
What e'er the World pretends to you or me,  
Francelia and Amyntor still are free.   

Must I not see you? Why will you create  
Laws more severe, than Virtue, Man or Fate?  
If at your feet I wait your loved command,  
And breathe my Soul in kisses on your hand,  
While thousand Beauties in your eyes do shine,  
And raise as many smiling joys in mine,  
To heat your speech, while pleasure stops my own;  
Then sigh and wish that you were mine alone.  
Where is the Crime? Virtue all this has taught,  
But if you hate me,— O that dismal thought,  
It Stabs— my pen falls from my trembling hand,  
My heart beats faintly, all my Spirits stand.  
If still your Servant you with hate pursue,  
Let me receive my doom from none but you;  
And like a Christian Lover, my last breath  
Shall praise and pardon her that caused my death.    

Song set by Mr. Staggins.  
To the Tune of Augusta.  

FRancelia's heart is still the same,  
Cold and hard as Winter's morning,  
Round her Love is ever burning,  
Yet no Sighs or Frowns can ever  
Warm her Ice, or cool my Fever.   

So much I think and talk of her,  
That every Grove and Stream can name her;  
All the Nymphs and Echoes blame her:  
If she keeps her cruel fashion,  
Only death can ease my Passion.   

All the Arts that Lovers have,  
All the Vows, and all the anguish,  
All the looks with which I languish,  
Move not her to any feeling;  
Beauty takes delight in killing.    

A Rant against the God of Love.  

I.  
THou damned perpetual peevish folly,  
Curse of a quiet life,  
Father and Child of lazy Melancholy,  
Author of public care and secret strife,  
Expensive ruin, everlasting cheat,  
Beloved consumption of the great,  
Plague of the poor:  
Son of a salted frothy Whore;  
Whose Emblematic birth,  
Foretold her mischiefs to the misbelieving Earth▪   

II.  
So rotten and so base  
The Embryo was,  
The Gods in Heaven and Earth▪ could find no place  
Impure enough for such vile Midwifery,  
But drenched it in the World's sink, the Sea;  
There by the rapid motion,  
And the briny pickle of the Ocean,  
Which like a sickly Stomach, strove  
To disembogue the Potion  
On the resisting Rocks, who drove  
The Poison back again  
Into the troubled main:  
Preserved from dissolution,  
It became  
The Queen of Beauty, Lust and Shame.   

III.  
Thy lawless Sire,  
Composed of Rapine, Blood and Fire.  
God of destructive Rage, and War;  
Lean Poverty and Desolation, are  
The Blessings which do fall from his vainglorious Car.  
With horrid slaughter all imbrued,  
With Curses and with hate pursued,  
He Venus wooed:  
The Union of this matchless pair,  
Of Rash and Brave, Lustful and Fair,  
Produced this most accomplished Heir;  
An Offspring for such Parents fit,  
Eternal Moth of Treasure, Peace and Wit.    

The Excuse.  

TRansports of Passion cannot be withstood,  
Therefore are pardoned by the wise and good.  
Anger in misbecoming language flies,  
And o'er the kindest Friends would Tyrannize.  
Enlarging joys like swelling Torrents roll,  
All prudent caution from the fearless Soul.  
And griefs contracting pain benumbs each sense,  
Driving the care of life and safety thence.  
What then should be forgiven to o●e that's filled  
With Love, to which all other Passions yield?  
And what compassion should that Lover gain,  
Whose heart at once all Passions did sustain?   

When I my dear Francelia sought to meet,  
I saw her trouble, and I grieved to see't;  
Yet intervals of joy did grief o'repow'r,  
To be so near that Beauty I adore:  
Then storms of rage my trembling heart did seize,  
That I should injure whom I'd die to please.  
Armies of different thoughts at once possessed,  
Conquered and changed the purpose of my breast;  
But Love, resistless Love, whose slave I am,  
Hurrided me on, and every stop o'ercome.  
When rapid flame some petty house surrounds,  
Th' amazed owners fear no death or wounds,  
But flighting all concerns of pain or health,  
Fly through fire to save a little wealth.  
Love's raging flame on all my Vitals preys,  
And every part insensibly decays.  
And can you, Madam, think it much that I  
Should for relief to th' Crystal Fountain fly?   

O pardon me, and I'll no more contend,  
But like a Willow bow to every wind.  
And all your blasts of Scorn and Anger bear,  
Until my Sufferings do the Tempest tyre,  
Or by my fall the great example prove,  
Of endless Cruelty and matchless Love.    

Song set by Mr. Smith.  

LIberty, Liberty!  
Reason and Love are at War,  
No more on wild Passion I'll wait,  
Or cringe to an upstart despair,  
The Creature of idle conceit.  
Draw up my thoughts, let Shame the Fight begin,  
Charge to the heart, O let not Hope get in,  
'Tis Love's Hero, if that appear in his defence,  
A thousand thousand reasons cannot force him thence.   

Victory, Victory!  
Love the Usurper is fled,  
His Flames and his Arrows are spent,  
The toys by which Fools are misled,  
To adore what themselves do invent.  
The thing appears that did support his cause▪  
How pale she looks that to my heart gave Laws!  
The Nymphs vanished, set are the Suns that made me  
blind,  
And only Woman, vain weak Woman's left behind.   

Phillida, Phillida!  
What's of my Goddess become?  
O where is the shape and the Mien,  
Whose presence has oft struck me dumb,  
Whose beauty I thought all Divine?  
As in the dark to one o'ercome by fear,  
Deformed shapes and spirits seem to appear.  
The fond Lover strange wonders in his Nymph does find,  
When all the Charms are in his own deluded mind.    

To Madam R. P.  
REason and Love, their ancient feud laid by,  
Equally strive to raise your power high,  
Beauty, Loves never failing dart in you,  
Exceeds all praise, and does all hearts subdue.  
Cupid in every careless smile is dressed,  
Kindling a fire in the beholder's breast.  
And Reason, if the slave don't strait submit,  
Proclaims your Virtue and Victorious Wit;  
Love give the charge, and Reason strengthens it.  
Alas what heart can make resistance, where  
Youth, Beauty, Wit and Virtue do appear?   

Gratitude to Fidelia.  

THe Frantic Zealot who to Bliss aspires,  
On Racks of care and mortified desires,  
Mistakes the way, by blind devotion driven;  
Your favours lead me to a sweeter Heaven.  
As Souls of Lovers murdered with despair,  
Do hover still where their fair Tyrants are.  
On you I waited till your kind reprieve  
Raised my long buried hope, and made me live.  
Eternal blessings your great favour pay,  
Delights unclouded, Joys without allay:  
Fate ever smiling like perpetual day.  
In ecstasies of pleasing thought I see,  
Divine Fidelia smiling bow to me.  
Each hour my Soul recals the Bliss and then,  
Languishing dies, till I enjoy't again.  
If one short beam of hope such raptures move,  
Ah! what would my adored Fidelia's Love?  
Fidelia.  
With struggling Doubts and dying Hopes oppressed,  
My heart is wand'ring in a Sea of fire.  
I see, but cannot reach the port of rest,  
Forced back by Storms of fear and fierce desire.   

No happy Star, but Fair Fidelia's Eyes  
Can change the Scene of my decaying state,  
And turn this Tempest to a Paradise;  
Beauty commands all hearts and conquers fate.   

Love's greatest pleasure to his stupid foes,  
Seems childish folly in a grave disguise,  
So sacred Worship to the Atheist shows,  
Who's dully blest and ignorantly wise.   

Those that Religion for brisk Wit deny,  
And slight sweet Love for Wine or flattering mirth,  
Are cheated with false pleasures, while they fly  
The Bliss of Heaven, and greatest joys on Earth.  
One smile to me from my Fidelia's Eye,  
Is more than Kings can give, or Empire buy.    

The Mistake.  

I.  
ALas how short? how false and vain?  
Are the uncertain joys of man,  
But O how true? how fixed are  
His restless pain?  
His certain grief and never ceasing Care?  
The Trees that bend with flakes of Snow,  
Spring will adorn with verdant Leaves.  
The Fruitful Grain that buried lies,  
In joyful Blades again shall rise  
And grow,  
To pay the Rustics pain with golden Sheaves.  
But man, poor wretched man,  
Once in Love's boundless Ocean launched, no more  
Returns again to joys forsaken shore.   

II.  
By flattering hope deceived,  
For what is wished is soon believed;  
Francelia's favour like a cheerful Sun,  
I thought on her Amyntor shone,  
Which swelled my joys to such a wild extreme,  
I made an Idol of each dazzling beam.  
Pardon my easy Faith, O fond deluded Soul,  
'Twas but a waking dream,  
Thy comforts vanished but thy grief is whole.   

III.  
Rivers by Ebbing Waves left dry,  
Returning Tides as swiftly fill;  
The Valley that does lowest lie,  
Ends at the rising of a Hill.  
All things to change do swiftly hast,  
A welcome light  
Succeeds each night;  
Only my Passion and my Pain must last,  
Since my Francelia's rigid doom is past.  
Confined as sinners are in Hell,  
I see with Envy, where the Happy dwell.  
Deep Lakes and rugged way,  
My passage stay;  
But Ah how soon,  
That weak defence should down,  
Were it not guarded by my Angel's frown!   

IV.  
Mistaken Hope, be gone,  
Wait on the Happy and the Fair,  
To whom thy cheats are yet unknown,  
Let sad Amyntors' fate alone;  
Thy fading smiles increase despair,  
Without a murmur or an altered face,  
My unrelenting fate I will embrace.  
So close my fire shall be confined,  
I will not trust the whispering wind.  
My Sighs shall Fan the Flame and feed the smart,  
Till it consume my rash despised heart;  
Then one short groan shall fix a lasting date,  
To this long difference of Love and Hate,  
Unless our present thoughts attend our future state.  
That point I'll leave to those that here are blest;  
Souls with neglected Love and Grief oppressed,  
Can find no greater Hell by seeking Rest.  
Mine to discover seats of Bliss or Woe  
Would freely go,  
Were it assured Francelia though too late,  
Would sigh and say she was ingrate,  
A Love so True deserved a kinder Fate.    

Song set by Mr. Marsh signior.  

DOwn with this Love that has made such a pother,  
This Jack with a Lantern that leads us a round,  
Till with dull Marriage we cheat one another,  
For joys that do vanish as soon as th' are found.  
Repent, ye proud Nymphs, for your tricks shall not pass,  
We'll change no more Gold and good Stones for your  
Glass.   

While so severely you rail at the pleasure,  
And kill the poor Lover that's at your command,  
Like Doctors you turn your heads from the  
treasure,  
But, O how you grasp what is put in your hand.  
Repent, etc.  
We'll change, etc.  
When the short minute we sighed for, is over,  
The Nymph is more brisk and more kind than before,  
But how dejected and dull is her Lover,  
To find all his Passion can purchase no more.  
Repent, etc.  
We'll change, etc.    

The Resolve.  

I.  
FOrtune, I scorn thee now,  
Thou hast not left one dart,  
To move my hardened heart,  
Or cloud my smiling brow.  
Like cunning Tyrants, thy severest pain  
Thou keptst till last:  
It racks my Soul, but yet I'll not complain.  
When this short fit is past,  
I'll never Love nor Grieve again.   

II.  
Thou canst not any mighty conquest boast,  
For had I never won, I had not lost;  
Then we are even,  
And after this,  
What ever comes amiss  
Or well, I'll take as sent from Heaven.  
Thou art no more with me  
A Deity.  
Chance, Fortune, Fate, y'are all but empty names,  
Since fair Francelia thus the War proclaims.  
Love, Joy, Grief, who Lord it so o'er slaves, hence  
I'm down, but from my fall,  
I'll rise above you all,  
Shake off your Chains, and be in thought a Prince.   

III.  
Ah Francelia must I never? Curse on my fond heart,  
It heaves and pants still loath to quit the pleasant smart,  
Thou shalt submit or break,  
Swell on, I'll never speak,  
Nor look, nor write, nor think, nor hope, nor fear.  
Be wise, my heart, thou canst not hers subdue,  
She loves already, none can well love two.  
Hate all the World since th' art despised by her:  
Or if thou ever canst again  
Be sensible of Joy or Pain,  
Rejoice thou were't not poorly slain,  
But by a Beauty which o'er all does reign:  
Rejoice that thou lov'dst her alone,  
And though thy service she disown,  
Yet pity her that can adore  
A man that loves a hundred more.  
O'er one small Province to command alone,  
Is sweeter than to share a mightly Throne.    

Song set by Mr. Staggins.  

WHy should we e'er Beauty fade,  
Slaves to care and age be made,  
Since our flying youth can no more be had.  
Where Love and Mirth do call, let's go  
And crop new joys each minute as they grow;  
Tomorrows fate there's none can know.   

Let's sing and laugh sad thoughts away,  
Mirth shall rule the active day,  
And the night to raptures of Love we'll pay.  
Thus should youth in pleasure's reign;  
And gods that cannot put on Earth again,  
Shall wish for such delights in vain.    

To the King on his Birthday. 1675. Song set by Mr. Staggins.  

GReat Love and mighty War be gone,  
With all your flattering charms and glorious noise.  
A nobler theme our Art employs,  
A theme for gods to think upon.  
Let the glad sound,  
Which our voices deliver,  
Rebound  
To the Hills, from the River,  
Thence to the Sky  
Let the shrill Echo fly.  
On the winds nimble wing,  
Round the Earth let her run,  
Like the rays of the Sun,  
That all may rejoice for the life of the King.   

Chorus.  
O how blessed is the day that your birth has made great!  
And how happy, how happy are we that do see't!  
While we offer up Vows to the Gods in a Song,  
That your Fame may shine bright,  
As the World's great light,  
And your Reign may continue as long.   

Long life and never-fading health,  
A mind untroubled as the sleep of Saints,  
When Heavens joy the fancy paints.  
New Mines of never-ending wealth.  
Hearts that are true,  
And devoted to Heaven  
And you,  
All the gods have e'er given,  
Kindly to bless  
The soft pleasures of Peace.  
All that story can bring,  
And the joys yet unknown  
Be contracted in one,  
And for ever attend on the life of the King.   

Chorus.  
O how blessed is the day that your birth has made great!  
And how happy, how happy are we that do see't!  
While we offer up Vows to the Gods in a Song,  
That your Fame may shine bright,  
As the World's great light,  
And your Reign may continue as long.    

To the Queen. Set by Mr. Marsh signior.  
MOunt, mount, my Muse: Up to the gods aspire,  
And take a spark of their Celestial fire;  
No influence else fit raptures can raise,  
To sing great Gloriana's praise.  
Her Heavenly smiles more joys create,  
Than dawning day to wanderers brings:  
Than peace to a decaying state,  
Or thriving War to youthful Kings.  
Nature, no longer boast thy flattering snares,  
Thy Gems, thy Flowers, and thy Stars.  
Wise Lovers, that quickly coy Beauties would gain,  
Compare them no more to things fading and vain,  
But what's more resistless, more sweet and more fair,  
To the Beams of her Eyes, or the Nets of her Hair.  
The Royal graces of her mind,  
So glorious are, so unconfined;  
Those happy slaves that on her wait,  
That can behold and imitate  
The Zeal that in her worship flames,  
Will for their never-dying names,  
With Saints on Earth gain blest abodes,  
And place their Souls among the gods.   

A Persuasive to Love.  

HOw long, O dearer than my Soul? how long  
Shall weak distrust my Passion wrong?  
And make each prattling child of fear,  
The shape of monstrous danger wear.  
Your Honour and your safety are,  
Of all my thoughts the chiefest care.  
Dearer to me, than precious breath  
To wealthy Misers near their death:  
Than Heirs to mighty names, above  
The joys and hopes of all my Love.   

Fixed like a Statue I would stand,  
While some bold Villains bloody hand,  
Tears from my breast my panting heart.  
Die smiling at the greatest smart,  
E'er one kind word or favour shown  
By my fair Goddess, should be known.  
But Ah! too well, too well I know,  
The cause that makes you fly me so;  
You fear to see the wounds you make,  
Lest pity your hard heart awake:  
Pity, the noblest Virtue of the mind,  
For sure 'tis Virtue to be kind,  
Since Heaven to pity is so much inclined.  
Fear not our meeting should be known,  
Believe my heart and trust your own.  
Why should the blessing be delayed?  
The price of Love we both have paid:  
You when that— was betrayed.  
That damned— which all my curses bears;  
My heart weeps blood to pay your precious tears.  
All I have suffered, even your Hate.  
That crime can never expiate.  
Like seeds that must to flowers spread,  
Our Love with water has been fed;  
Our Love! O pardon what I said,  
My wishes do my pen misled:  
Yet I'll wish on, wish that my dear  
Loved me as much as I love her,  
Then should my flame so faithful prove,  
I'd recompense your Grief with Love.  
Such joys, such pleasures, Love can give,  
As none but Lovers can believe.  
As one in false Religion bred,  
Whose Faith, by Sense and Custom's led;  
Derides the mysteries more Divine,  
Till Practice does his Faith refine.  
Of Love such may your fancy be,  
But then, my Dearest, think of me:  
Of me, who, spite of adverse Fate,  
Strengthened by all your Scorn and Hate,  
Have never yet apostatised,  
So sweet is Love although despised.  
The hope at last success to gain,  
(For Hope does still with Love remain.)  
Brings Comfort in the midst of Pain.  
Try, O my dear Francelia, try  
But one short minute, Love and see  
What Heavenly joys, what ecstasy,  
Do in your presence wait on me.    

Song set by Mr. Le Grange.  

WIth a damned sullen fate let's no longer conspire,  
To feed the fierce torments of fear and desire?  
Thy frowns and coy looks do thy Passion discover,  
My care to conceal it declares I'm thy Lover.  
Then why should we fear the smooth Ocean of Love,  
Since paddling and straining will keep us above?  
Let business and wealth to their Chaos be hurled,  
'Tis Love's the delight and support of the World.   

He that dotes on his bags while his passing Bell touls,  
The modest Platonics that talk of their Souls,  
The grave men of State that are wise in Grimaces,  
The canting Reformers that say such long Graces,  
The fur'd men of Law those deciders of doubt,  
When Passion is stirring do briskly cry out,  
Let business, etc.  
'Tis Love's, &c.    

Song set by Mr. Hart.  

BElieve me, dear Mall,  
For I've traded with all  
Those of name and Estate,  
That have made the Town prate  
Of their many brave deeds and great forces,  
When they come to the matter  
Are weaker than water,  
And have nothing that's strong but their purses.   

With high jellies and broth,  
They make the blood froth,  
Which creates a false fire,  
And a sickly desire.  
They embrace her as if they could eat her,  
Such eager hot flashes,  
Strait turn into ashes,  
And deceive both themselves and the creature.   

Mother— giveth this  
For a Maxim to Miss,  
For thy grandeur and fame,  
Keep a Cock of the game;  
But a tough brawny dunghill to tread ye.  
Let the wealth of thy Cully  
Provide for thy Bully,  
Then his weapon will always be ready.    

The Rival, a Song set by Mr. Marsh signior.  

INsult not too much on thy fading success,  
For all that thou hast, I before did possess,  
I know, my fair Rival, how happy thou art,  
I know all the secret delights of thy heart.  
To tempt thee those pleasures were taken from me,  
And to please some new beauty he'll take'em from thee.   

When first thy Ambition was flattered, how sweet?  
How dazzling was power and wealth at thy feet?  
How dear were the minutes when Passion was young,  
And played with the languishing Eyes and the Tongue?  
What followed, ye gods, I remember too well,  
Such pleasures, such pleasures no tongue can revele.   

But e'er long thy fond Heart and sad Eyes will deplore  
That Coldness and Scorn I lamented before.  
Thy Beauty and Humour, which makes thee so fair,  
Will pine with pale Envy, and end in Despair.  
If then thy lost heart can its freedom regain,  
More sweet it will be o'er thy Passion to reign.   

I am free from the pangs of desire and hate,  
I envy no Lovers their wretched estate;  
No wishes or fears or fierce jealousies keep  
My eyes on the rack, or affright my soft sleep  
But safe on the Shore without Passion I see  
Poor Lovers tormented and lost on the Sea.    

The Modish Lover. Song set by Mr. Marsh signior.  

AT last I find 'tis vain to believe  
The Coy or Kind any Cure can give  
To a heart that to Love does incline  
Like mine,  
Fruition is but a reprieve.  
I thought my first flame  
Would still be the same.  
If Cloris could Love, O I'd ever be true;  
But Love is so blind,  
When Cloris was kind,  
I changed for less Beauty to one that was new.   

I felt again the pleasure and smart,  
The joy and pain which captives the heart.  
And as many true Oaths as before  
I swore,  
From Phillis I never would part.  
The next pretty face  
Got Phillis' place,  
Which my Vows and my Passion as hotly pursued:  
The next did appear  
More charming than her,  
And thus are my torments for ever renewed.   

When I love one who thinks she's above  
Loves sacred throne, whom nothing can move,  
Who thinks that 'tis great to appear  
Severe,  
And slight the soft pleasures of love;  
I fly for relief  
To the next pretty thief:  
And to quench my hot flame I seek a new fire;  
But never could meet  
That Beauty or Wit,  
Whose love or disdain, could confine my desire.   

All things of course to change do submit,  
O'erruled by force, by fortune or wit;  
Then how can a Lover compel  
His will,  
When Beauty and Fate won't permit?  
Where Love does invite  
I'll seek my delight,  
And give the same freedom to her I adore.  
Though many pretend  
Their flame can ne'er end,  
That womans deceived that believes any more.    

Song set by Mr. Marsh signior.  

CLoris I come to learn my fate,  
To Love we are accused,  
Who mad to see his power and state  
By easy mirth abused;  
Has from thy Eyes a real dart  
Into my breasts conveyed,  
And now tormented by the smart,  
I come to thee for aid.   

Since you so long did feed my flame,  
Till in my heart you reigned,  
Since you did know and did not blame  
My Passion that was feigned,  
Condemn not with your cruel frown  
The story of my fate,  
It is injustice to disown  
The Love you did create.   

Why should you now refuse to hear,  
What once you did invite?  
If Love when dressed in truth appear  
Less able to delight.  
Let me in jest loves pleasure taste,  
I never will complain;  
So the deluding cheat may last,  
I'll ne'er love truth again.   

Thus Damon wooed but all in vain,  
She still was more unkind.  
His Vows could no belief obtain,  
No pity could he find.  
But when he ceased to be her slave,  
And all her scorn repaid,  
The Nymph relented and she gave  
What she so long delayed.    

To Miranda.  
MEn vainly boast the power that nature gave.  
all-conquering Beauty rules the King and  
Slave.  
Read fair Miranda's charming face, and then  
Tell me where's the prerogative of men.  
Here Nature's self in all her gayest dress,  
All her delights and power does express;  
And with true lustre free from fading Art,  
Rules every Eye, and reigns o'er every heart.  
No formal pride her Beauty does o'ershade.  
O happy man, for whom this blessings made!  
Let her in joys for ever live, while I,  
Doomed for her Victim, at Love's Altar die.   

Song set by Mr. Smith.  

I Sighed and I Writ,  
And employed all my Wit,  
And still pretty Silvia denied;  
'Twas Virtue I thought,  
And became such a sot,  
I adored her the more for her pride.   

Till masked in the Pit  
My coy Lucrece I met,  
A crowd of gay Fops held her play;  
So brisk and so free  
With her smart repartee,  
I was cured and went blushing away.   

Poor Lovers mistake,  
The addresses they make  
With Vows to be constant and true.  
Though all the Nymphs hold  
For the sport that is old,  
Yet their play-mates must ever be new▪   

Each pretty new toy  
They would die to enjoy,  
And then for a newer they pine;  
But when they perceive  
Others like what they leave,  
They will cry for their bauble again.    

One fallen in love with the sight of a Ladies— Song set by Mr. Marsh signior.  

I Long was tormented with Envy and Rage,  
At the freedom that's used in this amorous  
age,  
To see the brisk youth even while I was by,  
Court the Nymph that I loved as freely as I:  
But Fortune, for which I shall ever adore her,  
Has showed me a Beauty which is my restorer.   

So pretty, so plump, such a delicate shape,  
Such a pure Red and White, as no heart can escape.  
All the raptures of Poets the skin doth surpass,  
Without any help of Paint, Patches or Glass.  
An Innocent wash that's of Nature's own making,  
Is all it e'er used for to make it so taking.   

Though blind, the deep wounds that it gives more  
surprise,  
Then the Stars or the diamonds of Phillis' Eyes;  
Had it sight, it would always be staring abroad,  
And make the whole World esteem it a God.  
Its mouth has such melting agreeable motion,  
All Nations fall down to't with heat of devotion.   

'Tis veiled like a Spaniard but guarded much more,  
By the Virtue of Sylvia which waits at the door;  
A Champion so jealous no force or design,  
Can gain a new sight of't until it is mine.  
Yet this makes me happy, for though 'tis so pretty,  
It ne'er will be common, like Phillis or Betty.   

Ah Sylvia, how soon all my sorrows would end!  
If you heard the advice of your beautiful friend.  
It showed, when I saw it, as if 't would be kind,  
O be not severe to the dumb and the blind.  
There can be no change or decay in my Passion,  
'Tis caused by a Beauty that's ne'er out of fashion.    

Song set by Mr. Marsh signior.  

NAy pray thee no more of this love masquerade,  
Now all sorts of Fops are grown old in the  
trade.  
All the pleasure is gone,  
And the cheats so well known,  
That 'twill ruin more Lovers than ever it made.  
If you think y'are a wit and would fain have me  
know it,  
You must leave this dull road of the over-rid Poet.   

Alexis and Damon, and twenty Swains more,  
Have been Sighing and Vowing a hundred times o'er.  
Let me die, and all that,  
Is insipid and flat,  
And your Courtship's as serious to every Whore.  
Ah charming Divine! and O sweet pretty Creature!  
Is so old, the Amour of a Cobbler is greater.   

You torture a Song till you make the ears ache,  
Your Alamode wit from the Playhouse you take;  
And are airy and bold  
While the borrowed stock hold,  
But more mouths than a disciplined Monkey you make  
When 'tis spent; and with Cringes and new fashioned  
Curses,  
Or the price of your Trappings make up your discourses.   

These shallow designs, and the plots that you cast,  
Can never prevail o'er a woman that's Chast.  
And a Wench so well knows  
Where to take all your blows,  
That she turns your Weapon against you at last.  
If such humorous folly can raise love in any,  
Scaramouch will be sooner preferred then his Zany.    

Epilogue to The shoemaker's a Gentleman, Spoken by the Master-Shoomaker.  
DEar Brothers of the Gentle Craft you see  
Th' original of our Gentility;  
We have new vamped, new soald, and made it tight,  
Lend us your aid to keep it still upright.  
These Goths and Vandals who do hate your glory,  
Are met to raze this monumental story.  
Stand boldly to't now is the heat o'th' Battle,  
Let Crispin live, and let Saint Hugh's bones rattle.   

Valentine's Day.  
BEfore the youthful Spring had died  
The Earth with Flora's chequered pride.  
Before the new thawed fields were seen  
Dressed in a joyful Summer's green.  
Grey bearded Winters frosty Chain,  
Was just dissolved by Phoebus' Wain;  
And the aspiring God flown high,  
To guard the Spring in's Infancy,  
Inviting Flora from her bed,  
To rob her of her Maidenhead▪  
E'er fair Aurora's blushing head  
Had edged the Eastern Hills with red,  
My restless fancy guided me  
Into a happy privacy,  
Where the embracing Trees had made  
A pleasant, though yet leafless shade.  
Each naked branch in coupling wise,  
A pretty harmless love-knot ties;  
From which conjunction Nature shoots  
Sweet blossoms and delicious fruits.  
The winged music of the Air,  
Did to this amorous Grove repair;  
And with their tempting notes did grace  
The various pleasures of the place.  
As I surprised with wonder sat,  
Each Bird chose out his feathered mate,  
And seeming fearful of delay,  
Through yielding Air they cut their way,  
Some to the Woods, some to the Groves,  
To consummate their eager Loves.  
So have I seen at Hymen's feasts,  
A company of youthful guests,  
A thousand ways advance delight;  
But when the long-wished lazy night,  
To bed invokes the blushing Bride,  
Loves endless quarrel to decide,  
A silent envy spreads each face,  
The Men wish his, the Maids her place:  
And e'er that single Wedding's o'er,  
It gives a birth to many more.  
Musing how powerful Nature was,  
Sometimes through prickly thorns I pass,  
Whose winding branches seemed to court  
Me to attend the harmless sport.  
Sometimes I walk by Crystal Springs,  
Whose gliding streams in circling rings,  
Unto the music listening stood,  
Till pressed by the pursuing flood,  
Their angry murmurs did betray,  
How loath they were to pass away.  
Grown weary with this pleasing sight,  
Excess of pleasure dulls delight,  
To rest my drowsy sense I sought  
The softest, sweetest, grassy plot,  
But as I wand'red here and there,  
A voice arrests my idle ear,  
Which from a neighbouring thicket flies,  
Drawn thither by my greedy Eyes.  
Two loving Rogues within it lay,  
And thus I heard the Puppets play.  
Long did I muse but all in vain,  
What wanton stars that day did reign.  
But as my steps did homewards stray  
I met my Phoebe by the way,  
My Phoebe, whose commanding Eyes,  
Had made my heart her Sacrifice;  
To her fair hand I paid a kiss,  
But she returned a greater bliss,  
Presenting Violets to me,  
Good morrow Valentine, said she.   

Prologue to a Play Acted privately.  

PRologues, those pleasing and successful ways,  
To gain protection for ill written Plays,  
Most useful are in our ingenious times,  
To cloud brisk nonsense and amazing times;  
Th' are interposed like flashy glaring light,  
For they the judgement cheat, as that the sight.  
Now Poets like the worst Mechanics grown,  
Do rail at others ware to sell their own.  
The last new Play still th' other house does huff,  
To set some newer mess of folly off.   

Poor harmless Punk they fiercely do abuse,  
Because she did Heroic love refuse,  
Or made the running Nag outstrip the Muse.  
Finding that Gallants now do Spaniel like,  
Fawn most on those whose Satyrs deepest strike.  
Fop, Critic, Flaxen Wig, the Miss and Cit,  
Are daily massacred by Prologue Wit,  
A modish wheedle to amuse the Pit;  
With dropping follies of their own they drive them in,  
That their great showrs of doggerel stuff may fall unseen;   

From all this mighty pother we are freed,  
Our Play does no excuse or Prologue need.  
He, who all other Poets would devour,  
Who swells with Poison sucked from every flower,  
Who rakes up dirt and lays it by his door,  
To make his glittering dross seem golden Ore;  
Even he, when his Satiric humour reigned,  
Permitted this rare Play to pass unstained.   

Now to ourselves—  
By railing first your censures which we fear,  
We may prevent or make them less severe;  
But to oblige you rather we'll believe,  
None will so rudely take what we so freely give.  
If any should condemn our harmless sport,  
We will not plead high precedents from Court:  
But with an equal rashness we'll maintain,  
If serious, he's a formal Fop, whose brain  
Does envy what it never could attain.   

The brisker Critics we'll debauched proclaim,  
Mere noise and froth without or salt or flame.   

How patiently the Verestreet crowd do stay,  
And for loud zealous nonsense weep and pray▪  
So eager are they to be led astray.  
Had you but half their zeal for no expe 〈…〉  
With founder reason and far better 〈…〉  
You all may go much more reformed from hence.    

Prologue to a Play Acted privately.  

I Know your thoughts, and see in every Eye  
The dreadful marks of a censorious spy;  
You come, as modish wits to Church these times,  
Not to reform, but note the speakers crime.   

Our case is hard, we must be censured still,  
For Acting first, and then for Acting ill.  
We want brave Scenes, gay Clothes and Confidence,  
More fit for Players than their Wit or Sense.  
I 〈…〉 you would say now— since 'tis thus,  
What's th●ir design to fool themselves and us?   

Tell me, why with such mighty cost and care  
Our jaunty youth to Masquerades repair?  
Why in such raptures they return back,  
What sport? what pleasures we have had, dear Jack?  
What Vizards? O what Gowns? didst thou but see't,  
When, Do you know me now? is all the Wit,  
And stranger dresses daily fill the street.   

Why some with dull discourse and forced Grimaces,  
Take pains to be accounted serious asses?  
Inspired by News and Coffee, with what ease  
They manage Empires and command great Seas!  
Wasting whole days in stories which they make  
More vain and empty than the smoke they take.   

Tell me—  
Why some in drunken frolicks spend the night  
To make one knock, and cry I love the white?  
Then frisk and roar until the active brain,  
Too great and brave for Taverns to contain,  
Leads them into Love's field to run at Tilt,  
Where many wounds are given when no blood's spil●●  
The next day's language to a friend is this,  
Rare Mirth, brisk Wine, yet hang't, it cost a Piece:  
But such a fine airy Wench— Plague take the  
Whore,  
The young man found she had the Pox before;  
These things will be, but Gentlemen, we know  
That none of you were ever wheedled so.   

Tell me, why old sage Matron did of late,  
Mourn o'er her dog and let him lie in state?  
Why some make visits six hours longs to know  
The health of Shock or of my Lady's Toe?  
Why others to fond husbands do pretend  
They heard a Sermon, when they met a friend?  
A thousand such ill stories we may hear,  
But we are confident there's no such here.  
Since humour shelters all the Vice in use,  
We think this mirth of ours needs no excuse.  
Y'are all our friends and every one's a guest,  
Then be like well-bred people at a Feast,  
Who, whether pleased or not, still speak the best.    

Epologue to the same.  

NOw we have done our parts, I do foresee  
We must the Audience, you the Actors be.  
And by your pithy Comments you will say,  
You make a Farce much better than our Play.   

Lord, to what desperate terms we are brought,  
For all that strive to be ingenious thought,  
Will show their Rares of wit by finding fault.  
Vain women cheated by a flattering glass,  
Which shows fine Charms and Colours in the face,  
Are not with shame and anger more surprised,  
When their conceited Beauty is despised;  
Then we like them, with scorn will hide our spite,  
And that applause we could not gain, will slight.   

Men of the Gustan, at the French house eat,  
Many new dishes of the self same meat,  
No dress not sauce their queasy sense controls,  
But Novelty alone commands their Souls.  
If you'll be modish, you must do so too;  
Our Play is old, but all the Actors new,  
Such Actors as both Theatres can't make,  
Adzooks you are not Wits, if this don't take.   

If pleased, y'are kind and wise, but if you hiss,  
We know who games, who drinks, who keeps the  
Miss.  
Ladies, your close Intrigues and Loves we know,  
If y'are severe, your secret crimes we'll show;  
We'll do't— nay our revenge shall speak them worse,  
So fare you well, Gallant— now take your course.    

Prologue to Every Man out of his Humour, Spoken by Mr. Hayns, July, 1675.  
SO fast from Plays approved and Actors known,  
To drolling, stroling Royal Troop you run,  
That Hayns despairing is Religious grown.  
So Crack enjoyed, the queasy Gallants slight,  
And she, though still her beauty's in its height,  
In rage turns Nun and goes to Heaven in spite.  
O Novelty, who can thy power oppose!  
Polony Bear or strange Grimace outgoes  
Our finest language and our greatest shows.  
As thick-sculed Zealots, who from Churches fly,  
Think doleful nonsense good that makes them cry;  
Y'are pleased and laugh because— you know not why.  
There ignorant crowds round travelled Gallants sit,  
As amorous youths round Vizards in our Pit,  
And by their motions judge the Farces Wit.  
If they but grin, a jest is understood,  
All laugh outright and cry— egad that's good;  
When will our damned dull silly rogues do so?  
Y'are very complaisant, I fain would know  
Where lies the wit and power of (i'll oh.)  
The modish Nymphs now every heart will win,  
With the surprising ways of Harlequin.  
O the fine motion and the jaunty mean,  
While you Gallants—  
Who for dear Missie ne'er can do to much,  
Make Courtships alamode de Scarramouch.  
Ha— ha—  
I could have taught you this, but let that pass,  
Y'have heard I've wit, now you shall know I've grace,  
I will reform—  
But what Religion's best in this, lewd Town,  
My friends I'm yet like most of you, of none.  
If I'commence, I fear it will not do,  
Religion has its Scarramouchys too,  
Whose hums and has get all the praise and pence.  
For noise has still the upper hand of sense.  
Well since 'tis so—  
I'll keep my Station till your humours come,  
Though like the longing woman, now you room,  
And leave all dainties for the Butcher's thumb.  
You and vile husbands equally proceed  
Like rambling Bees, you quit your balm to seed  
On every gaudy flower and painted weed.  
When Winter comes you will again grow wise,  
And visit home the wife that you despise,  
With empty purses and with laden thighs.   

Epilogue to Every Man out of his Humour.  

HOw crossly and how kindly things do go!  
Though foreign troop does very powerful  
grow,  
Kind Justice beats down our domestic foe.  
Th' enchanted Castle's once more overthrown,  
That Nursery where all the youth in Town,  
Such deeds of Valour and of Love have shown.  
Britain's Low Countries, where at mighty rates  
The younger Brothers urged their needy Fates,  
And th' Elder got diseases for Estates.   

See how the scattered Cracks in parties fly,  
How like a nest of Wasps disturbed they ply,  
And fiercely fix on any Fop that's high.  
I warn you, though your presence theirs will bring,  
Be not too eager for the pretty thing▪  
The bag of Hony's sweet, but ' ware the sting.  
Play round the light, but from the heat retire;  
For if y'are joined between hot Love and Ire,  
Like Samsons Foxes you'll set all on fire.  
Reform yourselves, Reformers of the Stage,  
Blame not my Zeal, who can suppress their rage?  
When Love and Wrath spare neither Sex nor Age.  
For our Play we say nothing—  
The merit of it will your plaudits gain,  
Or else new Wit would strive to prop in vain,  
What johnsons' sacred memory can't sustain.    

Prologue to The Mistaken Husband.  

OUr modest Poet's in as great a fright,  
As a young Bride upon the marriage night,  
She starts and trembles when she sees the Bed,  
Like Criminals to Execution led;  
Alas, poor thing, she's loath to lose her head.   

As boys that shiver on the Rivers-brim,  
Inquire the warmth and depth of those that swim.  
She asks her married friends what shall I do?  
I do so shake— Ah, was it so with you?  
And yet she makes a hard shift to go through:  
Poets were once as full of trouble too,  
But now th' are desperate—  
To lose this Play as much our Poet strives,  
As you to hide your Misses from your Wives,  
He thinks you Critics and i'faith 'tis right,  
Are even as merciless to those write,  
As Husbands to their Wives o'th' Wedding night;  
You care no more for Poet's pains and fears,  
Than those fierce men regard the women's tears.  
At the least fault—  
If one snuffs and mouths it— there there she went,  
You open all and damn a Play by th' sent.   

One of our Nymphs should in my place appear,  
But y'are so dreadful she's fallen sick for fear.  
Those that pay dear for love, the veriest fools,  
Though they condemn the work, preserve the tools.   

Faith, Gallants, le's compound with you to day,  
Be you indulgent to our Orphan Play,  
We'll be as kind to you another way.    

Epilogue to the Mall or Modish Lovers.  

WHat has our Poet done you look so big?  
Has he not treated you with brisk intrigue?  
Some with dull Morals would affront the Age,  
And make a Coventicle of the Stage;  
Should we but offer you such things as those be,  
Damn the sententious Fop— come let's to Mosely.   

Had we a lively Scene, where you might see  
The Duck-pond-side and each beloved Tree;  
It would recall such stories of your own,  
What on this bench or that green tuft was done,  
That our poor Play uncensured might have gone.  
Like boasting Greeks, Troy's Conquest you would tell,  
Here Helen lay, and there stout Hector fell.  
To that soft bank the eager foe retired;  
There the hot breach was manned and City fired.   

You Rogue, cries one, the very place I see  
Where I and Phillis did— O happy Tree,  
The kind supporter of my Nymph and me.  
Another with fierce indignation rap't,  
Cries, rot her for a Bitch, there was I clap't.  
If you repeat next year such things as these,  
You'll rub the rind off and destroy the Trees.  
Well may our boldest Scenes fall short of you,  
We do but copy, by the life you drew.   

Now will you rail when you are gone from hence,  
O hang't, 'tis bawdy, all mere impudence.  
No serious lines will please you half so well,  
Unless we Huff the gods and Hector Hell.  
With Wit and Women you deal much at one,  
First you debauch, and then you cry them down.    

Prologue in the Vacation.  

WHile wars between the first rate houses cease,  
For want of new supplies compelled to peace,  
We little fifth rates, whom they still despise,  
May boldly cruise and make all lawful prize,  
With thundering Tempests, Fire and Devils they fish,  
And catch adventurers by twosh and threesh.  
One shilling is the greatest price we wish.  
They in deep gulfs and spreading Ocean's roll,  
We poor smart things put into every hole.  
Your fishing Bess or shoulder o'mutton Malls,  
egad we snap at every thing that sails.   

Then for your Company, look, I dare swear  
Y'had ne'er the like in either Theatre,  
Here's Vizards too, but look your Punks elsewhere▪  
There's a Beauty, heavens! So smooth, so fat,  
Nay, never blush for such a face as that,  
No Miss in Town is half so plump and round, that's flat.  
We have a Poet too—  
Who sweats and stinks for his Heroic piece  
As much as ever— did for his.  
In all we imitate the Playhouse thus,  
Only in Acting they come short of us.   

Yet as old Nurse instructs young smikring Maid,  
When she sits stroking little mark of Lad:  
See by our penny how their shilling's made.  
My friends, keep all your hands in sight, I pray,  
While we are Acting mind no other Play.  
Our sports but one short hour last, that all the year;  
Besides no Company but ours must Act here.    

Prologue to The Supposed Prince.  

TRappolin supposed a Prince this humour shows,  
All pleasures do depend upon suppose.  
We by a strong suppose, may have to do  
With Wine and Women, Wit and Money too.   

Thus while you think a zealous Sister's eyes  
Are lifted up in pious ecstasies,  
In strong suppose all her Religion lies.  
The modest longing girl that dares not woe,  
Thus does enjoy her fame and pleasure too.   

He that sits next a pretty female, knows  
His hand trembles, and something comes and goes.  
He gazes, faints and dies, why all this shows  
The power and pleasure of a sweet suppose.  
Those that for garnished dishes keep ado,  
May have as wholesome Fish well buttered too,  
In a plain earthen pan for half the toil;  
But for suppose— for all's but—  
The bodies all one flesh, and yet, dear hearts,  
A mere suppose makes difference of parts.  
All were designed alike for our delight,  
Yet we suppose it fit to lose our right,  
And keep the sweetest both from touch and sight.  
Let that suppose that leads us so astray,  
As strongly further our supposing Play.  
The Duke and Trappolin must both be thought  
Transformed really, though they are not.  
Suppose that strongly thence our mirth all flows,  
Then we shall please you all— as we suppose.    

Prologue to The Armenian Queen.  

BEloved Miss and Punk, Vizard and Fop,  
All's gone that made your modish Prologues up.  
Ah, Gentlemen, what hope have we to please,  
When we have lost such powerful helps as these!  
Helps, that did Soul to all our actions give,  
Helps, without which nor you nor we can live.   

Though wit a thousand various ways is shown,  
From Love all flows, and to it all does run;  
As liquors round a spacious Funnel roll,  
Yet all at last sinks into one small hole.  
You now like several Ghosts, but haunt the place,  
Where once your joy and life's dear treasure was,  
While one sits thus— his Soul's to Windsor fled,  
Hunts every Closet, searches every Bed;  
At last he finds his noun dear Phillis laid  
In some close shade, where he had often played  
At Post and Pair with some fresh Country Maid.  
Enraged with thought, he mutters out— Ah Curse!  
Those that sit next believe he rails at us;  
Such Plague themselves and fright our friends away,  
Another Ghosts employed a sweeter way,  
Fixing his Eye upon that very place,  
Where he picked up his last obliging Lass,  
He sees her, Courts her, nay while he sits there,  
Carries her to th' Tavern, finds the very Chair;  
Feels her— soft hand, her melting Eye beholds,  
In empty Arms her airy Body folds;  
As a famous Author has it—  
But as the cursed Drawer disturbed him there,  
Some loud Heroick rant awakes him here;  
He's disobliged and huffs, the Play's cried down,  
And we are ruined e'er the cause is known.   

Yet though you damn us all, we still Act on,  
But what dull sport one party makes alone?  
While one thrusts on and th'other still wheels round,  
Between two stools— you know what falls to ground:  
Where both are willing there true pleasure's found.    

Epilogue to The Armenian Queen.  

ALas, what hope does there remain for us,  
When y'have already shut up t'other house;  
Yet we this Visitation-time stay here,  
When raging censure reigns and wit grows dear,  
In hope to gain your custom all the year.   

When Tempests and Enchantments fly the Town,  
When Prosp'ro's Devils dare not stand your frown;  
They to the Country strole with painted ware,  
Where mighty sums of precious time they share;  
While Author Punch does strange Machine's prepare  
For their new Opera in Barthol'mew Fair.   

He, pricked in Conscience that he choosed you so,  
With but the Copy of a Puppet-show;  
To please you, thither does invite you all,  
For two pence to behold th'original.  
They who for double prices scarce would do,  
Now that you are in want, do jilt you too.  
But we are constant still to your delight,  
Since dear Miss Punch is gone, i'faith do us right,  
And visit your poor Spouse once every night.  
Nay, Gentlemen, this is no strange request,  
For night and want do bring home Man and Beast.    

Epilogue by a Woman.  
Gentlemen,  

OUr men's late disappointments have made known,  
Without our Sex no business can be done;  
They treated you just as you deal with us,  
You promise fair—  
But if you once get in, ne'er pay a sauce,  
Women support the World and we the house.  
Nature and Power teach vile men to room,  
We poor good humoured things still play at home.  
men's active Legs with one nights dancing grow  
Quite dull and tired— Our Tongues are never so:  
Their lazy Instruments are out of Tune,  
And then forsooth there's nothing to be done.  
'Slife, out or in we women ne'er lie still,  
While our Pit's kept warm and our Purses fill.  
Yet, Gallants, you may pardon them for this,  
We oft have Played when you ne'er came to see's.   

Be constanter and less Capricious,  
How long shall we weak Vessels teach you thus?  
And yet in troth y'are always kind to us;  
But we must rail as cunning Lovers do,  
Not that y'are false but to preserve you true.  
You seem best pleased when you are most abused,  
But fawning wit and easy love's refused.  
A murmuring Miss revives your faint desire,  
And huffing Prologues raise your kindness higher;  
As blustering winds increase decaying fire.  
Cover our matted Seats but once a day,  
And to content you, we'll Act any way.  
Then Clap us sound, while we Play our parts,  
Or else— a mischief on your stony hearts.    

Prologue to The Indian Emperor, Acted by the Duchess of Portsmouth's servants, spoken by Mr. Poel.  

I Come from my despairing friends within,  
Who, conscious of the desperate state theyare in▪  
Dare not before their pardon's sealed be seen.  
By flattering hopes of loud applause betrayed,  
Which they have seen to our best Actors paid.  
As boldly they engaged and came thus far,  
As young brisk Reformadoes go to War.  
Success and triumphs take up every thought,  
They never think how hardly they are got:  
All's brave and well until the foe appears,  
Then they begin to shrink and shake their Ears.   

Some few hours passed with an assured mien,  
And cheerful voice they practised every Scene.  
Do't? Poh! because I did but seem to doubt,  
All were for turning envious Poel out;  
But now my huffing Gallants come about.  
Mr. dear Mr. Poel—  
Unless you help us out we are undone,  
I fear they will be out to fast alone.   

As serious Lovers can alone explain,  
In some well ordered speech their amorous pain;  
But when their Beauteous Idol comes in place,  
All's lost in Cringes and a begging face:  
Fear of offending and desire to please,  
Turns all to blushes and half-sentences;  
Yet that confusion shows a Love more true,  
Than all the flowers of Rhetoric can do.  
And if our good intentions here may please,  
I fear you'll have too many signs like these.  
They sent me to excuse their Crimes, who ought  
With all my skill to heighten every fault.   

If they should please, others would treat you thus,  
And make't a mode, than what becomes of us?  
The Chamber-trade would quite shut up our house,   

So jarring Tradesmen, all their Interest made,  
To have the sale of Foreign Wares forbade,  
And great men's servants strait set up the trade.  
But for this once may every one that Plays,  
Advance your pleasure and obtain your praise.  
Since they engage no more to do amiss,  
Their fear is punishment enough for this.    

Epilogue to the same, spoken by a Girl.  

Abused by that insulting 
* Poel.  Player's power,  
Who from a slave they made an Emperor;  
Our Indians gladly saw him die, for fear  
His Epilogue should be much more severe.  
There is a strutting Spanish 
† Coysh.  General too,  
Another of that envious huffing Crew,  
Although the Indian's Foe— in this design,  
To ruin them they equally combine.   

So Lawyers rail in parties at the Bar,  
But on the Clients lay the charge o'th' War.   

Therefore they for their Epilogue chose me,  
A stranger and from either Faction free,  
Young, Innocent, and what is more, a Maid,  
If this won't do, what can your smiles persuade?  
Nay, let me tell you, but let not them hear,  
These Indians are not what they do appear;  
If they are pleased, none knows what you may get;  
For they have Mines were ne'er discovered yet,  
Which frowns, or fiercest torments cannot find,  
In that theyare all of Montezuma's mind:  
But by your kindness and obliging Arts,  
You may command their Treasure and their Hearts.    

Prologue to Psyche Debauched.  

PSyche debauched, poor Soul! she made great haste,  
I knew the jilting Quean could never last  
Five weeks, she (must perhaps decay more fast,)  
— As our friend Nicander has it.  
Whilst our rich neighbours mock our Farce, we know  
Already th' utmost of their Puppet-show.  
Since they against Nature go, they Heaven offend,  
If Nature's purpose then cross Nature's end,  
Unnat'ral Nature is not Nature's friend.  
— There's Nature for you.  
As Aesop's Cat dressed like a Lady, this  
At first surprised, now where's the gaudy Miss  
You saw, and knew, and left her in a trice?  
None but the Dirty Rout would like her twice.  
Their well-dressed frolic once may please the Eye,  
But Plays like Women can't so satisfy.   

Ye masked Nymphs can tell there's something in ye,  
Besides the painted face, that gets the penny;  
Yet all the fame you give 'em we'll allow  
To their best Plays, and their best Actors too,  
That is, the Painter, Carpenter and Show,  
Beaumond and Fletcher, Poet and Deva●.  
But, Sirs, free harmless mirth you here condemn,  
And Clap at downright bawdry in them.  
In Epsom-wells for example—  
Are they not still for pushing Nature on,  
Till Nature's feat thus in your sight is done.  
— O Lord!—  
Let's take off Psyche's borrowed plumes a while;  
Hopkins and Sternhold, rise and claim your stile.  
Dread Kings of Brentford, leave Lardella's Hearse,  
Psyche's despairing Lovers steal your Verse.  
And let Apollo's Priest restore again,  
What from the nobler Mamamouchy's ta'en,  
Let them restore your treble prices too;  
To see how strangely they did bubble you,  
It made me blush and that I seldom do.  
Now Psyche's stripped from all her gay attire,  
Tè dè Pollykagathoy— behold the fire.  
But, O a long farewell to all this sort,  
Which Music, Scenes, nor Preface can't support,  
Or if they could, who cares a farthing for't?    

Epilogue to the same.  
NOw to get off, gadzooks, what shall we do?  
'Tis plain, my friends, that we have choosed you too▪  
Our Psyche that so pleasantly appears,  
Has proved as very a jilting Crack as theirs.  
When your high hopes for Beauty were prepared▪  
To meet a common ill-drest thing 'tis hard;  
But pardon us and your resentments smother,  
We promise you e'er long a touch with t'other.   

Song.  

ALas, my Coy Phillis, this humour's too old,  
Pish, fie and for shame, are too silly from you;  
For your looks, your sighs, and your blushes have told,  
That your Vows to cry out will never prove true.  
Then away with this folly and let's to the thing,  
for; I'faith, I must water my Nag at the Spring▪   

Elysium's a trick, and the Shades but a cheat,  
To cheer up some overgrown slighted old Maid.  
If my Phillis should live to that wretched Estate,  
How she would repent that I heard when she prayed!  
Then away with this folly, etc.  
For I'faith, etc.   

Like zealous Platonics, we'll rail at all sin;  
I'll praise thy great merits, and thou cry up mine:  
To practise in private we'll lock ourselves in;  
And while silly soft mortals believe us divine,  
We'll laugh at their folly and turn up the thing,  
And I'faith I will water my Nag at the Spring.   

O'ercome with my Passion and noble intent,  
My Phillis embraced me and led my Nag on,  
He dashed up the water each step that he went;  
But alas, Sir, she cried how soon he has done.  
Your Nag's a May-Colt and deserves no good thing,  
For I'faith he lies down in the middle of the Spring.    

The serious Thought.  

I.  
O Wretched state of helpless man!  
Flattered with lofty sounds of sovereign power;  
O'er every Creature he is said to reign,  
Yet only drags a longer chain;  
Ordained a slave to every fatal hour,  
And every cruel thought's his Emperor.   

II.  
Reason, that golden Calf to which we fall,  
Formed of those various toys despairing Souls  
And sullen Stoics to their comforts call;  
Our pleasure and our happiness controls,  
To torments it directs an easy way;  
But when delight with smiling looks,  
To soft intrancing bliss invokes.  
Virtue— we Virtue must obey,  
Virtue, that dull fantastic edgless tool,  
The stalking Horse of every Pedants School,  
The beggar's Tyrant, but the rich man's Fool,  
For Gold to any shape 'twill move,  
And be what ever-monarches love:  
Yet this confines our hands and eyes,  
While every creature we despise,  
Freely enjoys those sweets for which man dies.   

III.  
Why was I born a slave to Nature's law,  
Subject to frail desires of flesh and blood,  
Eager to ●ast each beauteous pleasing good▪  
If other rigid rules my thoughts must awe?  
A servant to one mighty— power ordained,  
And to the dictates of another chained.  
Is't justice to impose upon the heart  
Law less desires of love, and then  
To call that Passion sin,  
And for relief add torments to the smart?  
Hear me, ye powers divine,  
All hearts and powers to yours their strength resign,  
Pardon my thoughts, or else my thoughts confine.   

IV.  
Thou glorious torment of my life,  
Too dear Francelia, with whose eyes alone  
The gods could in my heart raise Love a throne,  
And set my peaceful thoughts at strife.  
Despise my heart no more, for 'tis the shrine,  
Where thy fair Image will for ever shine,  
Pardon the fierce complaints to which I'm driven;  
Or my loud Passion do not blame,  
If thy injustice it proclaim.  
Since it has rashly dared to question Heaven,  
I can no more endure this lukewarm state,  
This Purgatory where I dwell  
Between Love's Paradise and Hell,  
Celia, I dare my fate,  
And am prepared to meet thy Love or Hate.   

V.  
Alas, I fain would be deceived and find  
Some change in thy obdurate mind:  
Still like a desperate losing gamester, I throw on,  
Urging ill fortune till my stock of hope is gone;  
With gradual losses tired, I now set all,  
O Love, be kind, or let me quickly fall.  
'Tis not, O Celia, 'tis not well,  
To cheat your truest Lover with a smile,  
And to another give that heart for which I toil:  
Yet 'tis more cruel far,  
Your final doom not to declare,  
But let me still love on and still despair.    

To Celia.  

LOve, with which I long have been possessed,  
Does like an evil spirit haunt my breast,  
Sleeping or waking it allows no rest;  
When with strong Reason I would drive it thence,  
It puts new tortures upon every sense.  
My Passion to the utmost height to raise,  
All Celia's Beauties in my sight it lays;  
Beauties, which all admire and vainly strive to praise.  
But to destroy all budding hopes lays down  
My little merit and her constant frown;  
Thus does it urge me to a just despair,  
Then whispers, only death can end my care;  
Tempts me to drown myself in floods of tears,  
Or sigh away at once my griefs and fears;  
Thus am I racked, this dismal life I lead,  
Till tired with pain my heart seems cold and dead.  
And to the wretched 'tis a sad relief,  
To be insensible of joys or grief.  
But when my murderers much loved name resounds,  
My heart bleeds out afresh and feels new wounds.   

Unless Francelia has my death decreed,  
Let me from this tormenting spirit be freed,  
Or mine will haunt her when I'm dead indeed:  
Show your great power, remove this heavy rod,  
And by your kindness make this devil a God.    

Song.  

WHen Celia my heart did surprise,  
In an Ocean of grief my fair Goddess did rise,  
And like Crystal dissolved the tears flowed from her Eyes.  
From her Beautiful Cheeks all the Roses withdrew,  
And she looked like a Lily o'reladen with dew.   

How sweet did her sorrow appear!  
How I trembled and sighed, and for every tear  
Made a Vow to the gods and a prayer to her!  
O how soft are the wounds we receive from the fair!  
But the joys and the pleasures there's none can declare.   

What panting and fainting I feel,  
When embracing her feet, before Celia I kneel,  
O how dear are her smiles and how sweetly they kill!  
Every minute I die with the thoughts of my bliss,  
And she breathes a new life in each languishing kiss.   

O Love let us still wear thy Chain,  
Let no Passion but Love in our fancies ere reign,  
Let us often be cured and ne'er freed from the pain.  
All the pleasures of Wine to the sense are confined,  
But 'tis Love is the noblest delight of the mind.    

A Dialogue between Dorus and Amintor.  Dorus. 
WHence does this solemn sadness rise,  
Which all thy spirits has oppressed,  
And like a dull contagious mist,  
Hangs heavy on Amintor's Eyes?  Am. 
O Dorus!—  Dor. 
O Amintor! speak—  
Passions concealed, like struggling wind  
In concaves of the Earth confined,  
Too oft their trembling Prison break.  
Grief entertained and fed with tears,  
With such insinuating Art,  
Deludes the easy thoughtful heart,  
It makes it love the pain it bears.  
Awake, Amintor, from this dream,  
This drowsy Lethargy that steeps  
Thy sense in death-resembling sleeps,  
And give thy thoughts a cheerful theme.  Am. 
Tell me, O Shepherd, in this spacious round  
Of Earth and Sea, what pleasure to be found;  
'Tis all but one large grave, one gloomy den,  
Where ravenous time devours both things and men.  
On yonder shaded hill let's sit a while,  
And mark how poor mistaken mortals toil;  
Behold hard labour and laborions mirth,  
See how those Reapers court the teeming Earth,  
Look how they bend and with unwearyed pain,  
Adore the ground for every Sheaf they gain,  
These are the sweetest of the Rusticks days,  
This is the life which sinking Monarches praise.  
Now to the neighbouring Green thy sight transport,  
And there behold the drudgery of sport;  
How many silly antic steps they tread,  
How every sweeting Dancer toils to spread  
The restless arms, and shake the empty head.  
O endless toil! O flattering sordid noise!  
Where can this World show true and solid joys?  
Did not foreknowledge tell us what they are,  
Who could know idle mirth from busy care?  Dor. 
That knowledge which has mirth and care expressed,  
Instructs the judgement to elect the best.  
Since mirth prolongs that life that care would kill,  
And life's concern makes all things good or ill,  
Reason should overcome the stubborn Will.  Am. 
Knowledge and Reason's force men disavow,  
To Beauty's tyranny all hearts must bow.  Dor. 
Beauty and Tyranny—  Am. 
Yes Dorus, yes,  
Despised Love does all my joy suppress.  Dor. 
To one that's cruel who would be confined,  
When Beauties are so numerous and kind?  Am. 
Hast thou observed the Infancy of day?  
When from the Eastern Sea all fresh and gay,  
The rosy morning's glory fills our eyes,  
The Moon and every meaner lustre dies.  
So when my dazzling Shepherdess appears,  
All other Beauties fade and yield to hers.  
Her eyes such pleasure and such awe impart,  
As Monarch's smiles do to a favourites heart;  
The Rose and Purple Violet she stains,  
With her more blushing Cheek and clearer Veins,  
Those powerful charms which from her face are sent,  
Would make a Ravisher seem innocent.  
Nor polished Ivory nor falling Snow,  
The whiteness of her whiter neck can show;  
No Down of Swans, no Lilies e'er expressed  
The charming softness of her swelling Breast,  
Those mounts of pleasure, where Love's Monarch lies  
Boasting the victories purchased by her eyes.  
A shining Vale those panting Twins does sever, A Vale where murdered Lovers hearts do bleed,  
Whose sweets all thought, all ecstasy exceed.  
O let Amintor's heart rest there forever.  
Now, Shepherd, an eternity of joys  
And hidden bliss my roving thought employs.  
O let me die, Francelia, let me die,  
E'er from this Paradise of thought I'm driven;  
For to a Lover so unblessed as I,  
There is no way but death to enter Heaven.  Dor. 
Prithee, Amintor, quench this raging fire;  
From hopeless Love 'tis prudence to retire.  Am. 

Thou mayst as soon cast water in the Sea,  
And take it thence unmixed, as set me free.  
Quench this raging fire—  
Sing to a Tempest till thou mak'st it kind,  
And with thy music part the mingled wind:  
Sow Corn upon a stream that never stood,  
And hope a Harvest from the moving flood.  
When Poison has invaded every part,  
And fixed its deadly Venom in the heart,  
Bid the tormented patient quit his pain,  
But never hope I can my love restrain.   

Here Celia walked, and here was I undone,  
Viewing those glories which around her shone.  
Such Rays of Beauty as the Artist paints,  
To Crown the heads of Celebrated Saints.  
This Walk did, like a blessed Elysium yield,  
All that adorns the Garden or the Field.  
Hither did Nature all her treasure bring,  
And here exposed the glories of the Spring.  
Enchanting Birds sat warbling on each Tree.   Dor. 
Here such a Paradise could never be,  Am. 

Where e'er she is 'tis Paradise to me.  
All the bright Beauty's Nature ever made,  
When Winters stormy weather makes them fade,  
With her as in their store-house do remain,  
And every Spring are copied thence again.  
Dull Poets, praise no more the Thracian's String;  
When Celia speaks a Choir of Angels sing.  
Here 'twas I robbed her of a balmy kiss,  
And eager to ensure a future bliss,  
I sighing asked her—  
Dear, won't you love— she sighed and whispered; yes.  
Yes! Yes! O Cruelty! For at that very time,  
She vowed my death should expiate my crime.  
Was't not enough to murder with disdain?  
Must loss be added to complete my pain?  
Loss of the highest blessing Love could give,  
When you said yes, alas I did believe;  
And after such a loss, who'd wish to live?   

Tell me, unkind and cruel as you are,  
Are you less beautiful, less chaste or fair,  
If one poor kiss is wanting from your store?  
I'll freely pay you back ten thousand more.  
Did e'er my joys or sufferings find a tongue  
To boast your smiles, or do your honour wrong?  
Was ever hopeless love preserved so long?   Dor. 
How vainly dost thou court the senseless Air,  
And to regardless Trees repeat thy prayer?  
Did thy insulting cruel Goddess hear,  
Thou wouldst as little pity get from her:  
Leave Love's ingrateful God, shake off his chain,  
Go where the God of Wine and Mirth does reign,  
He'll see thy merit and relieve thy pain.  Am. 
She loves me not— forbids my Tongue and Quill.  Dor. 
Dost thou love her, and disobey her Will?  
To hardened hearts insensible of Love,  
Courtship does horrid Persecution prove.  
Thy Love's best shown by serving her desire.  Am. 
I can't suppress, but I'll conceal my fire;  
And by my sufferings raise my merit higher.  
Never had Lover such hard fate as I,  
To show my Love I must my Love deny,  
And to be blest, all hope of blessings fly.  
So when destroying Plagues did threaten Rome,  
The noble Curtius did prevent its doom;  
All love of life and safety he o'ercome,  
And by his death immortalised his name.   

Song.  
THy rigour, O Celia, has shortened thy reign,  
And made my bright Goddess a Mortal again.  
How faint are they glories, how dully they move,  
That used to inflame me with raptures of Love!  

Chorus.  
Tyrannical Beauties, prevent your sad state,  
'Tis kindness alone can support your high throne,  
But cruelty hastens your fate.   

I paid my devotion each day to thy eyes;  
I thought it no morning till Celia did rise.  
With Celia the Court and the Theatres rung,  
Her praise was the subject of every song.   

Chorus.  
Tyrannical Beauty, lament thy lost state,  
My Passion is gone and thy Empire is done,  
Thy cruelty hastened thy fate.   

Love heightens our joy, he's the ease of our care,  
A Spur to the Valiant and Crown to the Fair;  
O seize his soft wings and enjoy while you may,  
For pleasures of Love will like Empire decay.   

Chorus.  
Tyrannical Beauties, prevent your sad state,  
'Tis kindness alone can support your high throne,  
But cruelty hastens your fate.    

The Pavier's Song. Set by Mr. Marsh junior.  
Master,  

YE tough brawny Lads, that can live upon stone,  
And skin the hard Flint for good Liquor,  
Let Love to the idle and wealthy be gone,  
And let Preaching alone to the Vicar.  
Let all be made plain with your strikers and thumpers,  
And when the work's done we'll about with the bumpers.  
The little blind God of which Lovers so prate,  
Makes all that adore him grow lazy;  
For counterfeit blessings he long makes you wait,  
And with Sighs and Diseases he pays ye:  
But he you serve now with your strikers and thumpers,  
When your work's done will about with the bumpers.  
1. Pa. The Walks are all gravelled, and the Bower shall be  
Prepared for the Bear and Psyche.  
2. But e'er we go in let the drinking begin,  
And then we will thump it again.   

Chorus.  
With full double Pots  
Let us liquor our throats,  
And then we'll to work with a hoh ho ho,  
But let's drink e'er we go, let us drink e'er we go.  
1. Here Harry.  
2. Here Will.   

Chorus.  
Old true-penny still,  
While one is drinking, another should fill.  
3. Here's to thee Stephen,  
4. Thanks honest Phil.   

Chorus.  
Old true-penny still,  
While one is drinking, another should fill.   

Chorus.  
With full double Pots  
We'll liquor, etc.   

Master,  
Dispatch, or the Bear and the Princess will child,  
For Love can no hindrance abide▪  
1. Pav. We have more need of drinking then  
loving by odds;  
We'll bouse it in spite of the gods.   

Chorus.  
With full double Pots  
We'll liquour our throats,  
And then we'll to work with a hoh ho ho,  
But let's drink e'er we go, but let's drink e'er we go.    

Marina sitting for her Picture.  
POor barren Art, how vainly dost thou strive,  
To Rival Nature's greater excellence!  
While the admired Marina does survive,  
Whose Beauty dazzles the most daring sense.  
See how the captived Painter's trembling hand  
Wanders at large, while his amazed eyes  
Dart looks of envy that he can't command  
Colours so fair as on her cheeks arise.  
Lay by thy Pencil, Ned, and think with me,  
If in her face such glorious things we find,  
Who can resist those charms thou dost not see;  
The brighter Beauties of her heavenly mind?  
There's sacred Virtue, and each powerful grace,  
Which cannot be surprised by feeble Art:  
When creeping Age drives Lovers from the face,  
Those will for ever hold the conquered heart.  
Thou Tyrant, Love, that hast my Soul possessed,  
Give me this treasure or my heart again:  
Were I with wealth and mighty Empire blest,  
Without Marina, all the rest were vain.   

Uncertain Love.  

THe labouring man that Plants or Sows,  
His certain times of Profit knows.  
Seamen the roughest tempest scorn,  
Hoping at last a rich return.  
But my too much loved Celia's mind  
Is more inconstant and unkind  
Than stormy weather, Sea or Wind.  
Now with assured Hope raised high,  
I think no man so blest as I;  
Hope, that a dying Saint may own,  
To see and hear her speak alone.  
What if I snatch one kiss or more?  
Were Heaven gives a wealthy store,  
'Tis to be bounteous to the poor.  
But e'er my swiftest thought can thence  
Convey a blessing to my sense,  
My hope like Fairy treasure's gone,  
Although I never made it known.  
From all untruth my heart is clean,  
No other Love can enter in,  
Yet Celia's ne'er will come again.   
FINIS.