Who, though unmeet, yet touched the trembling string, For the fair fame of Anne and Albion's land, And when thy will, and when thy subject's hand, CANTATA. SET BY MONSIEUR GALLIARD. RECIT. BENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade, ARIETTE. Potent Venus, bid thy son Sound no more his dire alarms. Safe and humble let me rest, Potent Venus, bid thy son Sound no more his dire alarms. 10 RECIT. Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair; Why do I all day lament and sigh, And why all night pursue her in my dreams, 18 RECIT. Thus sung the bard; and thus the goddess spoke: Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke. Every state, and every age Shall own my rule, and fear my rage; ARIET. Bid thy destined lyre discover Often praise, and always love her: Through her ear, her heart obtain. Verse shall please, and sighs shall move her, HER RIGHT NAME. As Nancy at her toilet sat, Tell me, she said, but tell me true; The nymph who could your heart subduc. 30 Does down her ivory bosom roll, 9 May say, how red, how round, how sweet; 20 Old Homer only could indite Their vagrant grace and soft delight: They stand recorded in his book, When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke The gipsy, turning to her glass, LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID.1 OVID is the surest guide You can name to show the way Who resolves to go astray. 1 Translated from a Madrigal of Gilbert, sur l'Art d'Aimer d'Ovide. A REASONABLE AFFLICTION. 1 ON his death-bed poor Lubin lies; With frequent sobs, and mutual cries, 2 A different cause, says parson Sly, ANOTHER. FROM her own native France as old Alison past, ANOTHER. HER eye-brow box one morning lost, I can behold no mortal now; ON THE SAME SUBJECT. IN a dark corner of the house Poor Helen sits, and sobs and cries; Nor her more dear picquet-allies: Unless she find her eye-brows, She'll even weep out her eyes. ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 1 HELEN was just slipt into bed: Her eye-brows on the toilet lay: Away the kitten with them fled, As fees belonging to her prey. 2 For this misfortune careless Jane, Assure yourself, was loudly rated; And madam, getting up again, With her own hand the mouse-trap baited. 3 On little things, as sages write, Depends our human joy or sorrow; If we don't catch a mouse to-night, Alas! no eye-brows for to-morrow. PHILLIS'S AGE. 1 How old may Phillis be, you ask, For she has really two ages. 2 Stiff in brocade, and pinched in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one. |