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The sun first rising in the morn,

While thus I am able to work at iny mill, That paints the dew-bespangled thorn, While thus thou art kind, and thy iongue but Does not so much the day adorn,

lies still, As does my lovely Peggy;

Our joys shall continue and ever he new, And when in Thetis' lap to rest,

And none be so happy as Ralph and his Sue. He streaks with gold the ruddy west,

Chorus--I love Sue, &c.
He's not so beauteous as undress'd
Appears my lovely Peggy.

$74. Sung in the Winter's Tale. Garrick. When Zephyr on the violet blows, Or breathes upon the damask rose,

Come, come, my good shepherds, our Blocks He does not half the sweets disclose

we must shear; That does my lovely Peggy.

In your holiday-suits with your lasses appear : I stole a kiss the other day,

The happiest of folk are the guileless and free; And, Irust me, nought but truth I say, And who are so guileless, so happy, as we? The fragrance of the blooining May

We harbor no passions by luxury taught, Is not so sweet as Peggy.

We practise no arts with hypocrisy fraught; Were she array'd in rustic weed,

What we think in our hearts you may read in With her the bleating Alocks I'd feed,

our eyes; And pipe upon the oaten reed,

For, knowing no falsehood, we need no disguise. To please my lovely Peggy :

By mode and caprice are the city dames led, With her a cottage would delight, All's happy when she's in my sight;

But we as the children of Nature are bred;

By her hand alone we are painted and dress'd; But when she's gone it's endless night All's dark without my Peggy.

For the roses will bloom when there's peace in

the breast. While bees from flow'r to flow'r shall rove, And linnels warble through the grove,

That giant, ambition, we never can dread; Or stately swans the rivers love,

Our roofs are too low for so lofty a head: So long shall I love Peggy :

Content and sweet cheerfulness open our door, And when death with his pointed Jart They smile with the simple, and feed with the Shall strike the blow that rives my hcarl,

poor. My words shall be, when I depart,

When love has possest us, that love we reveal ; “ Adieu, my lovely Peggy!"

Like the flocks that we feed are the passions we

feel;

So harmless and simple we sport and we play, 673. Song. The Miller's Wedding. GARRICK, | And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray. Leave, neighbours, your work, and to sport and to play;

$ 75. Song. GARRICK. Let the tabor strike up, and the village be gay: Ye fair married dames, who so often deplore No day through the year shall more cheerful be That a lover once blest is a lover no more; seen ;

Attend to my counsel, nor blush tu be taught For Ralph of the Mill inarries Sue of the Green. That prudence must cherish what beauty has CHORUS.

caught. I love Sue, and Sue loves me,

The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of And while the wind blows,

your eye, And while the mill goes,

Your roses and lilies, inay inake the men sigh; Who'll be su happy, so happy as we? But roses, and lilies, and sighs pass away, Let lords and fine folks, who for wealth take And passion will die as your beauties decay. a bride,

Use the man that you wed like your favorite Be married to-day, and to-morrow be cloy'd: 1 guitar, My body is stout, and my heart is as sound; Though music's in both, they are both apt to jar; And my love, like my courage, will never give How tuneful and soft from a delicate touch, ground.

Not handled too roughly, nor play'd on too Chorus I love Sue, &c.

much! Let ladies of fashion the best jointures wed, The sparrow and linnet will feed from your And prudently take the best bidders to bed :

hand, Such signing and sealing's no part of our bliss ; Grow tame at your kindness, and come at comWe setile our hearts, and we seal with a kiss.

mand: Chorus I love Sue, &c.

Exert with your husband the same happy skill, Though Ralph is not courtly, nor none of your for ne:

For hearts, like young birds, may be tand 20 beaux,

your will. Nor bounces, nor flatters, nor wears your fine Be gay and good-humor'd, complying and kind, clothes,

Turn the chief of your care from your face to In nothing he 'll follow the folks of high life,

your mind ; Nor e'er turn his back on his friend or his wife. 'Tis thus that a wife may her conquest improve, Chorus I love Sue, &c.

| And Hymen shall rivet the fetters of Love.

$76. Song in Harlequin's Invasion. GARRICK. $ 80. Air in Cymon. GARRICK. To arms ! ye brave mortals, to arms : Yet a while, sweet sleep, deceive me, The road to renown lies before ye!

Fold me in thy downy arms; The name of King Shakspeare has charms | Let not care awake to grieve me, To rouse you to actions of glory.

Lull it with ihy potent charms. Away! ye brave mortals, away!

I, a turtle doom'd to stray, 'Tis Nature calls on you to save her;

Quitting young the parent's nest, What man but would Nature obey,

| Find each bird a bird of prey; And fight for her Shakspeare for ever! Sorrow knows not where to rest !

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$77. Song in the same. Garrick. Thrice happy the nation that Shakspeare

1981. Shakspeare's Mulberry Tree. GARRICK. has charm'd!

Behold this fair goblet ! 'twas carv'd from the More happy the bosoms his genius has warm’d! Ye children of nature, of fashion, and whim, Which, O my sweet Shakspeare, was planted He painted you all, all join to praise him.

by thee! Chorus. Come away! come away! As a relic I kiss it, and bow at thy shrine,

His genius calls--you must obey. | What comes from thy hand must be ever divine! From highest to lowest, from old to the young,

All shall yield to ihe Mulberry-tree; All states and conditions by him have been sung;

Bend to thee, All passions and humors were rais'd by his pén;

Blest Mulberry ! He could soar with the eagle, and sink with

Matchless was he the wren.

Who planted thee, Chorus. Come away, &c.

And thou like him immortal shalt be. To praise him ye Fairies and Genii repair,

Ye trees of the forest; so rampant and high, He knew where ye haunted, in earth or in air: Who spread round your branches, whose heads No phantom so subtle could glide from his view,

sweep the sky; The wings of his fancy were swifter than you.

| Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought Chorus. Come away! come away!

To root out the natives at prices so dear; [here His genius calls—you must obey.

All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. The oak is held royal, is Britain's great boast,

Preserv'd once our king, and will always our $78. Song in the Country. Girl. Garrick.

coast;

[that fight, Tell not me of the roses and lilies

But of fir we make ships, we have thousands Which tinge the fair cheek of your Phyllis ; / While one, only one, like our Shakspeare can Tell not me of the dimples and eyes

write. For which silly Corydon dies :

All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. Let all whining lovers go hang;

Let Venus delight in her gay myrtle bowers, My heart would you hit,

Pomona in fruit-trees, and Flora in flowers ; Tip your arrow with wit,

The garden of Shakspeare all fancies will suit, And it comes to my heart with a twang, twang, | With the sweetestof Áowers, and fairest of fruit. And it comes to my heart with a twang.

All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. I am rock to the handsome and pretty,

With learning and knowledge the well-letter'd Can only be touch'd by the witty;

birch

[church; And beauty will ogle in vain : The way to my heart's through my brain.

Supplies law and physic, and grace for the

But law and the gospel in Shakspeare we find, Let all whining lovers go hang:

And he gives the best physic for body and mind. We wits, you must know,

All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. Have two strings to our bow, To return them their darts with a twang, twang,

The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree, To return them their darts with a twang.

From him and his merits this takes its degree;
Let Phæbus and Bacchus their glories resign,

Our tree shall surpass both the laurel and vine. $79. Air in Cymon. GARRICK.

All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. You gave me last week a young linnet,

The genius of Shakspeare outshines the bright Shut up in a fine golden cage; Yet how sad the poor thing was within it,

More rapture than wine to the heart can convey; O how it did flutter and rage!

So the tree that he planted, by making his own,

| Has laurel, and bays, and the vine, all in one. Then he mop'd and he pin'd, That his wings were contin'd,

. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. Till I open'd the door of his den:

Then each take a relic of this hallow'd tree; Then so merry was he;

From folly and fashion a charm let it be: And, because he was free,

Fill, fill to the planter the cup to the brim; He came to his cage back again.

I To honor the country, do honor to him.

day,

All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree;

Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Bend to thee,

Thy sorrow is in vain : Blest Mulberry!

For violets pluck'd, the sweetest show'rs Matchless was he

Will ne'er make grow again.
Who planted thee,
And thou, like him, immortal shalt be.

Our joys as winged dreams do fly,

Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,

Grieve not for what is past.
$ 82. The Friar of Orders Grey.

| O say not so, thou holy friar! « Dispersed through Shakspeare's plays are innumero able little fragments of ancient ballads, the entire co

1.I pray thee, say not so! pies of which could not be recovered. Many of For since my true-love died for me, these being of the most beautiful and pathetic sim

'Tis meet my tears should flow. plicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of And will he never come again? them, and with a few supplimental stanzas te connect them together, and form them into a little tale.

Will he ne'er come again? One small fragment was taken from Beaumont and

Ah, no! he is dead, and laid in his grave, Fletcher."

For ever to remain. It was a friar of orders grey

His cheek was redder than the rose, Walk'd forth to tell his beads;

The comeliest youth was he. And he met with a lady fair,

But he is dead, and laid in his grave, Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

Alas! and woe is me! Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,

Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, I pray thee tell to me,

Men were deceivers ever; If ever, at yon holy shrine,

One foot on sea, and one on land, My true love thou didst see.

To one thing constant never. And how should I know your true-love Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, From many another one ?

And left thee sad and heavy; O, by his cockle hat and staff,

For young men ever were fickle found, And by his sandal shoon:

Since summer-trees were leafy. But chiefly by his face and mien,

Now say not so, thou holy friar, That were so fair to view ;

I pray thee, say not so ! His faxen locks, that sweetly curl'd,

My love he had the truest heart; And eyne of lovely blue.

O he was ever true! O lady, he is dead and gone!

And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth? Lady, he's dead and gone ! And at his head a green-grass turf,

And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell, home! for evermore And at his heels a stone.

A pilgrim I will be. Within these holy cloisters long

But first upon my true-love's grave He languish'd, and he died,

My weary limbs I'll lay; Lamenting of a lady's love,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf And 'plaining of her pride.

That wraps his breathless clay. Here bore him, bare-faced on his bier,

Yet stay, fair lady, stay a while Six proper youths and tall;

Beneath this cloister wall: And many a lear bedew'd his grave

See, through the hawthorn blows the wind, Within yon kirk-yard wall.

And drizzly rain doth fall. And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ?

O stay me not, thou holy friar, And art thou dead and gone?

O stay me not, I pray ! And didst thou die for love of me?

No drizzly rain that falls on me Break, cruel heart of stone!

Can wash my fault away. O weep not, lady, weep not so!

Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, Some ghostly comfort seek :

And dry those pearly tears; Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,

For see, beneath this gown of grey, Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

Thy own true-love appears. O do not, do not, holy friar,

Here, forced by grief and hopeless lore, My sorrow now reprove;

These holy weeds I sought: For I have lost the sweetest youth

And here, ainidst these lonely walls, That e'er won lady's love.

To end my days I thought. And now, alas! for thy sad loss,

But haply, for my year of grace I'll ever weep and sigh;

Is not yet pass'd away, For thee I only wish to live,

Might I still hope to win thy love, For thee I wish to die.

No longer would I stay.

Now farewell grief, and welcome joy | And as she passed by,
Once more unto my heart;

With a scornful glance of her eye,
For since I've found thee, lovely youth,

What a shame, quoth she,
We never more will part.

For a swain must it be,
Like a lazy loon for to lie!

And dost thou nothing heed
$ 83. Song. Black-eyed Susan. Gay. What Pan our god has decreed,
All in the Downs the fleet was moord, What a prize to-day
The streamers waving in the wind,

Shall be given away
When black-ey'd Susan came on board, To the sweetest shepherd's reed?
O where shall I my true-love find?

There's not a single swain
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,

Of all this fruitful plain,
If my sweet William sails among your crew. But with hopes and fears
William, who high upon the yard

Now busily prepares
Rock'd by the billows to and fro,

The bonny boon to gain. Soon as her well-known voice he heard, Shall another maiden shine He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below;

In brighter array than thine? The cord glides swiftly through his glowing Up, up, dull swain, hands,

Tune thy pipe once again,
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. And make the garland mine.
So the sweet lark, high-pois'd in air, Alas! my love, I cried,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast, What avails this courtly pride?
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,

Since thy dear desert
And drops at once into her nest.

Is written in my heart,
The noblest captain in the British feet What is all the world beside ?
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. | To me thou art more gay,
O Susan, Susan, lovely dear!

In this homely russet grey,
My vows shall ever true remain;

Than the nymphs of our green, Let me kiss off that falling tear :

So trim and so sheen, We only part to meet again.

Or the brightest queen of May. Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be

| What though my fortune frown, The faithful compass that still points to thee.

And deny thee a silken gown;
Believe not what the landmen say,

My own dear maid,
Who tem pt with doubts thy constant mind : Be content with this shade,
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, And a shepherd all thy own.
At every port a mistress find.
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.
If to fair India's coast we sail,

$ 85. Song. PRIOR.
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright;
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,

Alexis shunnid his fellow-swains, Thy skin is ivory so white.

Their rural sports and jocund strains: Thus every beauteous object that I view

Heaven shield us all from Cupid's bow! Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

He lost his crook, he left his flocks,

And, wand'ring through the lonely rocks, Though battle calls me from thy arms,

He nourish'd endless woe. Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet free from harms, | The nymphs and shepherds round him came. William shall to his dear return:

His grief some pity, others blame, Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,

The fatal cause all kindly seek; Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.

He mingled his concern with theirs, The boatswain gives the dreadful word,

| He gave them back their friendly tears, The sails their swelling bosoms spread;

He sigh’d, but could not speak.
No longer must she stay on board :

Clarinda came, among the rest;
They kiss'd; she sighd; he hung his head; | And she, too, kind concern express'd,
Her less'ning boat unwilling rows to land; And ask'd the reason of his woe;
Adieu ! she cries, and wav'd her lily hand.

She ask'd, but with an air and mien
That made it easily foreseen

She fear'd too much to know.
$84. Song. Rowe.

The shepherd rais'd his mournful head: As on a summer's day,

And will you pardon me, he said, In the greenwood shade I lay,

While I the cruel truth reveal; The maid that I lov'd,

Which nothing from my breast should tear, As her fancy mov'd,

Which never should offend your ear, Came walking forth that way.

But that you bid me tell

'Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain,

When in the silence of the grove Since you appear'd upon the plain;

Poor Damon thus despair'd of love: You are the cause of all my care:

Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose Your eyes ten thousand daggers dart,

From the hard rock or oozy beach, Ten thousand torments vex my heart,

Who from each weed that barren grows I love, and I despair.

Expects the grape or downy peach, Too much, Alexis, have I heard ;

With equal faith may hope to find 'Tis what I thought, 'tis what I fear'd,

The truth of love in woman-kind. And yet I pardon you, she cried ;

No herds have I, no fleecy care, But you shall promise, ne'er again

No fields that wave with golden grain, To breathe your vows, or speak your pain : No pastures green, or gardens fair, He bow'd, obey'd--and died.

A woman's venal heart to gain ;

Then all in vain my sighs must prove, $ 86. Song

Whose whole estate, alas! is love. One morning very early, one morning in the

How wretched is the faithful youth, spring,

Since women's hearts are bought and sold I I heard a maid in Bedlam, who mournfully did

They ask no vows of sacred truth; sing;

Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold: Her chains she rattled on her hands, while

on her hands while | Gold can the frowns of scorn remove; sweetly thus sung she,

[me.

But I am scorn'd-who have but love.
I love my love, because I know my love loves | To buy the gem of India's coast
O cruel were his parents who sent my love to sea,

What wealth, what riches, would suffice ?

Yet India's shore should never boast And cruel, cruel was the ship that bore my love from me!

The lustre of thy rival eyes ;

For there the world too cheap must prore: Yet I love his parents, since they're his, altho' they've ruin'd me,

Can I then buy-who have but love? And I love my love, because I know my love Then, Mary, since nor gems nor ore loves me.

Can with thy brighter self compare, O! should it please the pitying pow’rs to call

Be just, as fair, and value more me to the sky,

Than gems or ore a heart sincere : I'd claim a guardian angel's charge, around my | Who pays thy worth must pay in love.

Let treasure meaner beauties more; love to fly; To guard him from all dangers, how happy

should I be! For I love my love, because I know my love

$ 88. Song: loves me.

What beauties does Flora disclose! I'll make a strawy garland, I'll make it wondrous fine,

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed!

But Mary's, still sweeter than those,
With roses, lilies, daisies, I'll mix the eglantine,
And I'll present it to my love, when he returns

Both nature and fancy exceed.

No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, from sea;

Nor all the gay flow'rs of the field, For I love my love, because I know my love loves me.

Nor Tweed gliding gently through those,

Such beauty and pleasure can yield. O if I were a little bird to build upon his

The warblers are heard in each grore, breast,

[rest! Or if I were a nightingale to sing my love to

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,

The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, To gaze upon his lovely eyes all my reward

With music enchant ev'ry bush. should be ! For I love my love, because I know my love

Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring; loves me.

We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, O, if I were an eagle, to soar into the sky!

And love while the feather'd folks sing. I'd gaze around with piercing eyes where I my love might spy:

How does my love pass the long day? But ah, unhappy maiden! that love you ne'er

Does Mary not tend a few sheep

| Do they never carelessly stray, shall see:

While happily she lies asleep? Yet I love my love, because I know my love loves me.

Tweed's murinars should lull her to rest ;

Kind Nature indulging my bliss,

To relieve the soft pains of my breast $ 87. Song.

I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. Tue sun was sunk beneath the hill,

'Tis she does the virgins excel, The western clouds were lin'd with gold; No beauty with her can compare ; Clear was the sky, the wind was still,

Love's graces all round her do dwell, The flocks were penu'd within the fold; L She's fatrest where thousands are fair.

To guatore adian angelig

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