Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM. T HE virgin, when soften'd by May, From the West as it wantonly blows, And willows and woodbines entwine. May tinges the butterfly's wing, Their mufic is taught them by May: The goddess will vifit ye soon, Ye virgins be sportive and gay; Get your pipes, oh! ye shepherds, in tune, For music must welcome the day. Would Damon have Phillis prove kind, And all his keen anguish remove; Let him tell a soft tale, and he'll find, That May is the mother of love. SONG 2. THE ORIGIN OF ENGLISH LIBERTY.. Written by G. A. STEVENS. ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrofial feaft, Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing; Merry Momus, among them, was sat as a guest, (Homer says the celestials lov'd laughing:) On each in the synod the humourist droll'd, So none could his jokes disapprove; He sung, repartee'd and fome smart stories told, And at last thus began upon Jove. Sire! Atlas, who long has the universe bore, "Grows grievously tir'd of late; "He says that mankind are much worse than "before, "So he begs to be eas'd of their weight." Jove, knowing the earth on poor Atlas was hurl'd, : "it in death, "Then return it untainted to heav'n." SONG 3. AN ELEGIAC PASTORAL BALLAD. Written by the EDITOR. YE swains who inhabit the green, You have heard that my Phillida's dead; In your looks the sad tidings are seen, And her worth in your grief may be read. Oh! was the not lovely and fair; Has the scarce left such beauty behind? And yet what was that to compare With the graces which dwelt in her mind? But let me not think of her charms! In vain do I utter my grief; Her loss the whole world can't supply: Death only will give me relief; To him, then, with pleasure I fly. Oh! shew me the way to my fair; I'll praise thee, great victor, for this! SONG 4. THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND; A CANTATA. RECITATIVE. TWAS at the gates of Calais, Hogarth tells, Where sad despair and famine always dwells, A meagre Frenchman, Madam Grandfire's cook, As home he steer'd, his carcafe that way took; Bending beneath the weight of fam'd Sir Loin, On whom he often wish'd, in vain, to dine: Good Father Dominick by chance came by, With rofy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye; Who, when he first beheld the greafy load, His benediction on it be bestow'd: And as the folid fat his fingers press'd, He lick'd his chaps, and thus the knight address'd. AIR. O rare roast beef! lov'd by all mankind, SONG 5. Written by Mr. GAY. GO, rofe, my Chloe's bosom gracę, Know, hapless flow'r, that thou shalt find With envy and despair: One common fate we both must prove; SONG 7. Sung in Love in a Village. CUPID, god of foft perfuafion, Justly those we tyrants call, What is grandeur? Foe to reft; |