By Thomas D'urfey, Gent.

LONDON: Printed for Iosoph Hindmarsh, at the Black Bull in Cornhill: 1683.

A Song made to a Tune, by the command of a Lady of Quality.

AT the foot of a Willow close under the
shade, Young Celion and Silvia one evening
were laid, the Youth pleaded strongly for
fruits of his Love, but honour had forc't
her his flame to reprove, she cries, where's
the Luster when Clouds shade the Sun? or
[Page 2] [...]
what is brisk Nectar the taste being gone?
in flowers on the stalks sweetest Odours do
dwell, but if gather'd the Rose is, it loses
the smell.
Thou fairest of Nymphs the bold Shepherd reply'd,
If ere thou wilt argue, begin on Love's side;
In matters of State let dull reasons be shown,
But Love is a power will be sway'd by his own;
Nor should a Coy Beauty be counted so rare,
For scandal can blast both the Chast and the Fair;
Most fierce are the joyes Love's Alembick doth fill,
And the Roses are sweetest when put to the Still.

The Bully, a Song in the Fool turned Critick, set by Mr. Lock.

ROom, Room, Room for a man oth' Town
That takes delight in roaring,
That dayly rambles up and down,
And spends his Night in Whoring;
That for the Modish name of Spark
Dares his Companions rally,
Commits a Murder in the dark,
Then sneaks into an Alley.
To every Female that he sees
He swears he bears affection,
Disdains all Law, Arrests, or Fees,
By help of a protection;
At last intending worser wrongs
By some resenting Cully,
He's decently whipt through the Lungs,
And there's an end of Bully.

A Song in Madam Fickle, set by Mr. Turner.

BEneath a shady Willow, near
A River's Purling streams,
Astrea careless of her Sheep
With folded Arms lay fast asleep,
Possess'd with Golden Dreams,
Her working faculty's supply'd
What drowzy sleep deny'd:
For oft she'd smile, and sigh, and grasp the Air,
Thinking her much lov'd Celadon was there.
But as this sleeping harmless Maid
Lay rapt in silent joy,
Possessing all that could be sought
In fetter'd senses happy thought,
Her Swain came Fishing by:
He eager to enjoy the bliss,
Awak'd her with a Kiss;
She Blushing rose, and cry'd unhapy Fate,
Ah Celadon thou now art come too late.

A Song on Dorinda going in a Barge up the Thames.

BRight was the Morning, cool was the Air,
Serene was all the Sky,
When on the Waves I left my dear,
The Centre of my Joy;
Heaven and Nature smiling were,
And nothing fad but I.
Each Rosie Field did Odours spred,
All Fragrant was the shore;
Each River God rose from his Bed,
And sigh'd and own'd her power:
Curling their Waves they deck'd their head,
As proud of what they bore.
So when the fair Egyptian Queen
Her Heroe went to see,
Cidnus swell'd o're his Banks in pride
As much in love as he:
Cidnus swell'd, &c.
Glide on ye waters, bear these Lines
And tell her how distress'd,
Bear all my sighs ye gentle winds
And waft 'em to her Breast,
Tell her if e're she prove unkind,
I never shall have rest.

Celia's Victory, a Song made at Epsom, and set by Mr. Farmer.

BOast no more fond Love thy power,
Or thy passion sweet and sower,
Bow to Celia, show thy duty,
Celia sways the world of Beauty;
Venus now does kneel before her,
And admiring Crowds adore her.
Like the Sun that guilds the Morning
Celia shines, but more adorning;
She like fate can wound a Lover,
Angel like too can recover;
She can kill or save from dying,
When the Ravisht soul is flying.
Sweeter than the blooming Rose is,
Whiter than the falling Snow is;
Then such eyes the great Creator,
Chose as Lamps to kindle Nature;
Curst is he that can refuse her,
Ah hard fate that I must loose her.

Chloe's Complaint, a Song set by Mr. Farmer.

LOng I've been wounded, but ne're durst
Long, long have been fetter'd yet still hug the
Long cruel Parents have tortur'd my Love,
And Fate long has strove the dear flame to remove;
But still like a Rock 'gainst the Tide and the
I fix, let the Torrent prove ne're so unkind;
And whilst my Silvander pursues his desire,
I still bear the Tinder and he the Fire.
The wise may dull Reasons and Morals propose,
And clog my sick fancy with Precepts like those;
But ah how in vain how vainly they preach,
Great Love surmounts all that their reason can
Love the great Agent that Nature employs,
The God of our Passions and source of our Joyes;
Without whom we soul-less and wretched should
For Mortals are Beasts till refin'd by Love.

A Song set to an Excellent Tune of Monsieur Baptist.

BId the Spring that's now a coming
Keep the Virgin Budds from blooming;
Bid the Deer forbear the Fountains,
Or the Snow the Tops of Mountains;
Bid the Stormy Winds leave blowing,
Or the Sea its ebb and flowing;
All these wonders may be doing
Far sooner than to move,
To move,
To move
My constant Love.
So short is our lifes sweetest minute,
That we lose it whilst we win it;
For if lasting were the Passion,
Who! ah! who would heed Salvation?
All the Joyes that Heaven Created,
All our sorrows are abated;
The dear bliss makes ev'ry Lover rated
A Deity and more,
And more,
Much more
By Beauties power.


IMmortal Lovers smile, and run your
hap-py Races, possess the pleasing toil of
languishing Embraces, let Zealots prate
of Joyes above, they know not how nor
where, we know a Paradice in Love and
take no further care.

A Song Sung to the King and Queen upon Sir John Moor's being Chosen Lord Mayor.

ALl Hail to great Caesar, Lov'd Monarch,
That Three Mighty Kingoms dost sway,
All Hail Gloriana,
The Lands Arcana,
The Brightest Planet in Loves Milky way.
Long, long have the story's of Plottings and
Assisted our fears,
The Whigs and the Tories in Mutiny joyn,
Like a new Civil War:
But now Ignoramus
No more shall shame us,
Dissolv'd and quell'd by a Loyal Lord Mayor.
No more shall the furies possess the dull Crowd
With Distraction and Care,
No more shall the Jurys excuse 'em High Treason
To show what they dare:
No more shall Professors,
Affront the Addressors
Since London now has a Loyal Lord Mayor.
Then welcome Great Caesar, and welcome the Pretor
That now rules the Chair,
Our hearts with a pleasure do Crown the swift Minutes
Of this happy year:
For 'tis strange in the City,
The more is the pity,
To see, to see a Loyal Lord Mayor.

The Second Song in Sir Barnaby Whigg, to the Tune of the Delights of the Bottle.

FArewell my lov'd science my former delight,
Moliere is quite riffled, then how should I write;
My fancy's grown sleepy, my quibling is done,
And design or Invention alas I have none;
But still let the Town never doubt my Condition,
Though I fall a dam'd Poet Ile mount a Musitian.
I got fame by filching from Poems and Plays,
But my Fidling and drinking has lost me the Bays;
Like a fury I rail'd, like a Satyr I writ,
Thersites my humour, and Fleckno my wit;
[Page 12] But to make some amends for my snarling and lashing,
I divert all the Town with my Thrumming and Thrashing.

The Serenade, a Song in the Injured Princess or a fatal wager, set by Captain Pack.

THe Larks awake the drouzy morn,
My dearest lovely Chloe rise,
And with thy dazling Rays adorn
The Ample World and Azure Skies:
Each eye of thine out-shines the Sun,
Though deckt in all his light,
As much as he excells the Moon,
Or each small twinkling Star at Noon,
Or Meteor of the Night.
Look down and see your Beauty's power,
See, see the heart in which you raign;
No Conquer'd slave in Triumph bore
Did ever wear so strong a Chain:
Feed me with smiles that I may live,
I'le ne're wish to be free;
Nor ever hope for kind Reprieve,
Or Loves gratefull bondage leave
For Immortality.

A Song to a very Beautiful but very Proud Lady, set by Mr. Farmer in two Movements.

CHloe, your scorn abate, kind beams discover,
Frowns purchace all mens hate, but gain no Lover;
Nature and Feature design'd you rare.
But whilst you are proud you are not fair;
Nor can the joys of Passion prove,
For Pride is still a foe to Love.
To Courts where Tyrants sway, who'le venture thither?
Or who will put to Sea in Stormy weather?
Faces and Graces no lustre own,
When shaded by disdainfull frown;
Ne're to the Sun had the Persian bow'd,
Had he hid his bright Glories behind a Cloud.

Second Movement.

But when the Bottles rowl about and Glasses,
Plague on all Intrigues, and pox on charming faces;
But when the Bottles rowl about and Glasses,
We know no disdain, nor value Charming faces;
[Page 14] Let the puney Lover sigh and whine and moan,
Like a fluttering drone, make an Insect humming;
Beauty here we see, more bright than any she,
Never out of humour, kind and always coming.

Scotch Song in the Royalist, made to a Pleasant new Tune.

TWa bonny Lads were Sawney and Iockey,
Blith Iockey was lov'd but Sawney unluckie;
Yet Sawney was tall, well-favour'd and witty,
But Ise in my heart thought Iockey more pretty;
For when he view'd me, su'd me, woo'd me,
Never was Lad so like to undo me;
Fye, I cryed, yet almost died,
Lest Iockey should gang, and come no more to me.
Iockey would Love, but he would not Marry,
And Ise had a dread least I should miscarry;
For his cunning Tongue with Wit was so guilded,
That I was afraid my heart would have yielded;
Daily he bless'd me, press'd me, kiss'd me,
Lost was the hour methought when he miss'd me;
Crying, denying, and sighing, I'de woo him,
But ah! much ado had I to gang fro him.
But cruel Fate robb'd me of this Jewel,
For Sawney would make him fight in a Duel,
And down in a Dale with Cypress surrounded,
Ah! there to his death poor Iockey was wounded;
But when he thrill'd him, fell'd him, kill'd him,
Who can express my grief that beheld him!
Raging, I tore my Hair to bind him,
And vow'd, and swore, I'de ne're stay behind him.

Kingston Church, a Song.

SWeet use your time, abuse your time
No longer, but be wise;
Your Lovers now discover you
Have Beauty to be priz'd;
But if you'r Coy you'l loose the joy,
So Curst will be your Fate,
The flower will fade, you'l dy a Maid,
And mourn your chance too late.
At Thirteen years and Fourteen years
The Virgins heart may range,
'Twixt Fifteen years and Fifty years
You'l find a wondrous chance;
[Page 16] Then whilst in Tune in May and Iune,
Let Love and Youth agree;
For if you stay till Christmas day
The Devil shall woo for me.

The Mistress, a Song made to an Excellent Scotch Tune.

COme all ye smiling Loves
That grace the Throne of Beauty,
Adorn the virdant Groves
Where Charming Celia lyes;
To her the Virgins round
Pay homage, zeal and duty,
With Heaven her face is Crown'd,
And Fate sits in her eyes.
A Thousand Shepherds wait upon her,
Thousands she refuses still,
Though at her feet they ly,
And languish pine and dy;
A too too rigid point of Honour,
Which her vertue uses still,
Makes wretched all the Plains,
And Murders all the Swains.
See where Loves Monarch goes
To watch the Dazling Creature,
[Page 17] For fear her eyes should close,
And shrowd the World in shades,
Possess her with my Woes,
Thou mighty God of Nature;
Tell her the sweetest Rose
The Blast of Time will fade.
Inspire her to believe my Passion,
And receive the truest Love,
That ever found a part
In any Virgins heart;
Ah! tell her Pride is out of fashion,
Beauty should divinely prove,
Like Heaven that mercy payes
To the meanest wretch that prayes.

A Song made to a Tune for the L. G.

SHining Stars are Celia's eyes,
Sweet Roses bloom in either Cheek,
Love from those his flame supplies,
From these does sweet Odour seek;
Every Grace that decks her face
Shows her of more than mortal race;
Every charm does so controul,
That she like Heaven formes the soul;
Soft as doun each outward part,
But, ah! no Marble like her heart.

To Astrea.

HOW long my dearest Astrea, how long
Must Celadons Love be delay'd?
You know that my passion though vig'rous and strong,
If kept from fruition will fade
And perish like flies in the shade;
And when Icy Age does our Battlements storm,
Our wishes can give us no power to perform.
The blosoms that now on the stalk looks so gay,
Is wither'd oft by an ill Air,
The Beauty that now looks splended as May,
Will perish through sickness or care,
Such destiny follows the fair:
Then use your best Minutes to Love and be kind,
For time never leaves any Beauty behind.

A Song in the Royallist to the King, set by Doctor Blow.

THE great Augustus like the
Glorious Sun, long on the rabble
Weeds with splendor shon; yet all the
[Page 20] Fruits of his bright influence was an ill
Odour, nauseous to the sence; long
slighted they his grace and love, his
mercy made 'em Rebels prove; nor
[Page 21] would they be kept under, like the
rude Ancients that affronted Iove, be­cause
they never felt his lightning or
his thun-der, because they never felt his
[Page 22] light-ning or his thun—der.


THen let 'em be con-found-ded, con­founded,
Then let 'em be con-found-ded, con­founded,
confounded; and so may every
confounded; and so may every
[Page 23] Round head, then let 'em be confounded, con­founded,
Round head, then let 'em be confounded, con­founded,
confounded, and so may e-ve-ry
confounded, and so may e-ve-ry
Round head, that stands not up for
Round head, that stands not up for
[Page 24] King and Laws, and so may e-ve-ry
King and Laws, and so may e-ve-ry
Round head be wretch—ed and confounded,
Round head be wretch—ed and confounded,
that dares, defend that dares defend the
that dares, defend that dares defend the
[Page 25] good old Cause.
good old Cause.

A Panegyrick on their Royal Highnesses, and Congratulating his Return from SCOTLAND.

WHen the most high Eternal Son of God
Through fam'd Iudea in Procession Rode;
The Loyal Publican with zealous hast
Climb'd up a Tree to view him as he past;
And with a look that did his joy relate,
The Mighty Saviour did Congratulate;
So 'mongst the Crouds that with impatience Strove
T'express their fealty and faithful Love,
[Page 26] I and my throbbing heart with equal flames
Panted and prest to meet the Godlike IAMES,
Welcome then mighty Sir, welcome as peace
To Conquer'd Nations, or to sick men ease;
Welcome as what you bring us, Loyalty,
A fruit which in our Isle we rarely see;
In th'barren North it blooms to storms expos'd,
But in our Sunny Climate never grows;
Here fertile Nature makes the Commons Kings,
And from her fatness rank Rebellion springs;
Dam'd Lust of English men, that ne're repented
Their Treason, nor with Blessing were contented.
Black was the day and blasted was the year
When the Curst factions full of wretched fear;
Sought the true Heir of England to exclude
Onely because he was too Great and Good;
Two Epithetes that never yet could suit
The sordid mind of your true English Brute;
Loud Tempests roar'd as if design'd to cross
The Royal Mandate and not let him pass,
Whilst weeping Flouds seem'd to mourn our loss;
And as each Element then bore a part
In grief, even so did every Honest Heart;
But now the happy hours are fully blest,
The Land with the full store of Heaven Possest;
The Season smiles and each propitious ray
For his return their secret joy display;
[Page 27] The Flowers that did in private Clossets keep,
And during the Winter of his Absence sleep
Bloom out, and a gay fragant Robe put on
To bless and welcome in the Rising Sun;
The Motto of the medal.
is the word, a word which late
As mighty hopes did mighty joy create;
When the fam'd Motto with applause was put
To th' Effigie of the Grand Patriot;
Nearest their hearts, where late their Georges hung,
The Palefac't Medal with a silver Tongue
Was plac't, whilst every wearer still exprest
His joy to Harbour there so fam'd a guest;
The wretch that stampt it got immortal fame,
'Twas coyn'd by stealth like Groats at Bru­micham:
Whilst each Professor with exalted voice,
Cryes Englands saved, and now let us Rejoyce.
But though seditious Tenets they pursue,
We have a cause of joy solid and true,
And therefore let us cry Laetamur too.
For Mighty YORK's return'd, return'd to Raign
O're hearts, and move in his Great Sphere again;
'Tis in his face you see the Rising Sun,
T'other's a Comet blazing o're the Town;
Portending mischiefs, seeming to explain,
The former Tragick Scene design'd again;
[Page 28] Fly then ye Loyal Natives, fly with zeal,
Embrace his knees and your true joy reveal;
Prove your Affection to your Injur'd Prince,
Give him your hearts, for you had his long since,
Aid his true cause, oppose the Rebel power,
And never part with your lov'd Heroe more.
And hail bright Princess best of thy fair kind,
An Angels body with an Angels mind,
Beauteous as are the Virgin Saints above,
That sit and smile on the Right hand of Iove:
And good as the first state heaven form'd 'em in,
E're that Angelick Sex knew how to sin;
How when she comes, shall we our Crimes atone?
How shall we meet the Justice of her frown?
That doing no offence was forc't away
With her dear Lord a cruel fate t' obey,
And sacrifice her Joy, her Peace and Fame
To a curst branded thing without a Name,
Down her fair face the liquid Treasures rowl'd,
Then taking on her Royal Partner hold,
England farewell, she cry'd, thou hated shore,
And may I never see thy baseness more:
But she comes back and nobly may despise
The Pigmy malice of her Enemies;
Disdain and Anger in her forehead sit,
Yet both so calm'd and temper'd by her wit,
[Page 29] That with a modest smile she strives t' oppose
Revenge, and only pities all her Foes.
Return then and forgive, and may your Name
Charm the wide Globe as does your Heroe's Fame:
Long may ye love, and still may ye appear
Teeming, as to our joy you prove this year,
Your Pregnant veins are framing wond'rous things,
Oh Glorious Passion that creates young Kings!
The illustrious Infant struggles in the Womb,
As if he knew his Royal Fate [...] come;
And silently mourns that so long a space
'T will be e're he begins his Glorious Race:
But when as the divinest gift of Heaven,
The Princely Babe is for our comfort given;
May every heart conspire with every Tongue
T' implore his years may be renown'd and long,
That he may merit his brave Fathers name,
And rival Vertue with his Mothers fame.
Methinks I see our great Augustus stand,
With the fair Princess smiling in his hand;
High Grandeur mixt with joy adorns his face,
Whilst blushing duty hers does sweetly grace:
Their Eyes are fixt and mingling glories seem
Like the Suns Rays reflecting on a Jem,
His awful light then on his Brother shines,
Who with a silent modesty inclines
[Page 30] To hear his welcome, and with humble grace,
Fixing his Eyes upon his Monarchs face,
His willing knees with Loyal duty bend
To his dear King, his Brother and his Friend,
Who in his arms does the lov'd Favorite hold,
And speaks a Gracious welcome from his Soul.
Thrice happy Scotland, well did'st thou begin
To make atonement for thy former sin;
When thou with joy a Virtue did'st embrace
By brooding Factions driven from this place,
Well was the much wrong'd Prince receiv'd by thee,
And well ha [...] thou reform'd thy Loyalty;
Yet to his goodness thou thy fame dost owe,
For thou had'st faithless bin had he been so;
But as the Thracian Bard with Charming strains,
Drew the wild Savages from Woods and Plains,
Controul'd their Brutish rage where e're he came,
And made the fiercest Wolves and Tigers tame;
So mighty Prince thy vertue did oppose
The close designs and malice of thy Foes,
And made a Nation fam'd for Treachery
Bow to thy Loyal Principles and thee;
Whilst England's left with its King-killing race,
A nest of Rebels as it ever was.

A Song in the Fond Husband in the praise of Marriage, set by Mr. Turner.

UNder the Branches of a spreading Tree,
Silvander sat from care and danger free;
And his inconstant roving humour shows
To his dear Nimph, that sung of Marriage vows;
But she with flowing graces Charming Air,
Crys fye, fye, my dear give o're,
Ah, tempt the pow'rs no more,
But thy offence with penitence repair;
For though vice in a Beauty seem sweet in thy Arms,
An Innocent Beauty has always more Charms.
Ah, Philida! the angry Swain reply'd,
Is not a Mistress better than a Bride?
What Man that universal yoke retains,
But meets an hour to sigh and curse his chains?
She smiling crys, change, change that impious mind,
Without it we could prove,
Not half the joys of Love,
'Tis Marriage makes the feeling bliss divine:
Then all our life long we from scandal remove,
And at last fall the Trophies of honour and Love.

An Epitaph on Dorinda.

IN this cold Monument lies one,
That I know who has lain upon;
(The happier he) whose sight would charm,
And touch would frozen Hermits warm:
Lovely as the Dawning East,
Was this Marbles frozen guest,
As Glorious and as bright as day,
As Odoriferous as May;
Whom I admir'd as soon as knew,
And now her memory pursue
With such a superstitious lust,
That I would ravish even her dust;
She all perfection had in store,
Beauty, as if design'd a Whore;
Or, as if Nature in her face
Design'd dull vertue to disgrace;
Civil she was and young, and wise,
And in her calling so precise,
That industry had made her prove
The kissing School-mistress of Love:
But Death Ambitious to become
Her Pupil leaves his Ghastly home,
And seeing how we us'd her here,
The rawbon'd Rascal Ravisht her;
Who pretty soul resign'd her Breath,
To practice Letchery with Death.

The Third Song in the Royalist, Sung by Mr. Bowman.

NOW now the Tories all must droop
Religion and the Laws,
And Whigs of Commonwealth get up,
To top the good Old Cause:
Tantivy Boys must all go down
With haughty Monarchy;
The Leather Cap must brave the Crown,
And hey Boys up go we.
When once the Antichristian crew,
Are crusht and overthrown,
Wee'l teach the Nobles how to sue;
And keep the Gentry down;
Good manners has an ill report,
And tends to Pride we see,
Wee'l therefore cry all breeding down,
And hey then up go we.
The Name of Lord shall be abhorr'd,
For every man's a Brother,
What reason then in Church or state
One man should rule another?
[Page 34] When we have Pill'd and Plunder'd all,
And level'd each degree,
Wee'l make their Plump young Daughters fall,
And hey then up go we.
Wee'l down with all the Versities
Where Learning is profest,
Because they practice and maintain
The Language of the Beast;
Wee'l exercise within the Groves,
And teach beneath a Tree,
Wee'l make a Pulpit of a Cask,
And hey then up go we.
What though the King and Parliament
Do not accord together,
We have most cause to be content,
This is our Sunshine weather;
For if good reason should take place,
And they should once agree,
Zoons who would be in a Roundheads case,
For hey Boys up go we.
Wee'l break the Windows which the Whore
Of Babylon has Painted▪
And when the Bishops are run down,
Our Elders shall be sainted;
[Page 35] Thus having quite enslav'd the Town;
Pretending it to free:
At last the Gallows claims its own,
And hey Boys up go we.

A Seranade, Sung at Tunbridge.

LOok down fair Nimph and see,
The tenders of a Lovers duty,
Whose heart till now was free;
From snares of sweet enchanting Beauty:
Like Bedlam Tom, I range and sue,
Around the streets all night I rove,
For pitty then look down and view
The victim of Almighty Love.

Second Movement.

Like Spirits we wander in dead time of night,
Huzza, Huzza, we roar and we fight;
With Bagpipe and Drum,
We rant our way home:
But see the Watch comes to oppose our delight.


Charge, charge, hey we scowre,
Through the Billmen in Flannel,
And down drops a Constable into the kennel.

A Song in Madam Fickle.

HAppy is the Man that takes delight
In Banqueting his senses,
That drinks all Day, and then at Night
The height of joy commences:
With Bottles arm'd we stand our ground,
Full Bumpers crown our Blisses,
Then Roar and Sing the streets around
In serenading Misses.
By blessings free and unconfin'd,
We prove without reproaches;
There's no bliss like a frolick mind,
Or pleasures like Deboaches:
Whilst rambling thus new joys we reap,
In charms of Love and Drinking;
Insipid Fops lye drown'd in sleep,
And the Cuckold he lies thinking.

The Rapture, a Song set by Mr. Farmer.

AS on Serena's panting Bre
The happy Strephon lay,
With Love and Beauty doubly blest
He past the hours away:
Fierce Raptures of transporting Love,
And pleasure struck him dumb,
He envied not the pow'rs above,
Nor all the joys to come.
As painful Bees far off do rove,
To bring their Treasure home,
So Strephon rang'd the Field of Love,
To make his honny Comb:
Her Ruby lips he suckt and prest,
From whence all sweets derive,
Then buzzing round her snowy Breast;
Soon crept into the hive.

A Song in the Night Adventures, or Squire Oldsap, set by Mr. Graboe.

CLose in a hollow silent Cave,
Young Damon sleeping lay,
Himself one hour from grief to save;
And from the scorching day,
He Celia lov'd, whose Face and Wit
Did every Shepherds sence controul;
Whose flowing hair was Loves soft net,
Whose every glance a heart did get:
And every smile a Soul.
But see what Balm Love's Monarch keeps,
To ease a Lovers pain,
As he in this dark Mansion sleeps,
It fiercely gan to rain:
Fair Celia roving through the Farm,
A straying Lamb from hurt to save,
Which found, she folds with her white Arm;
And then to save her from the storm,
Strait slipt into the Cave.
The drowzy Swain began to smile,
To see his Heaven so nigh,
She blusht and fear'd, and all the while
The Lamb stood bleating by:
No breath is left her to complain,
She's now a Captive by surprize,
And fears approaching joys and pain;
Thus at the mercy of the Swain,
The Charming Virgin lies.

A Scotch Song, Sung in the Virtuous Wife.

SAwney was Tall and of Noble Race,
And lov'd me better than any eane;
But noo he liggs by another Lass,
And Sawney will ne're be my Love agen:
I gave him fine Scotch Sarke and Band,
I put 'em on with mine own hand;
I gave him House, and I gave him Land,
Yet Sawney will ne're be my Love agen.
I robb'd the Groves of all their store,
And Nosegays made to give Sawney one;
He kist my Breast and feign wou'd do mere,
Gud feth me thought he was a bonny one:
He squeez'd my fingers, grasp'd my knee,
And Carv'd my name on each green Tree,
And sigh'd and languisht to ligg by me;
Yet noo he wonot be my Love agen.
My Bongrace and my Sun-burnt Face
He praiz'd, and also my Russet Gown,
But noo he doats on the Copper Lace
Of some lew'd Quean of London Town:
He gangs and gives her Cruds and Cream,
Whilst I poor soul sit sighing at heam,
And near joy Sawney unless in a dream;
For now he near will be my Love agen.

Another Song written at Epsom on Beauty.

BEauty, thou Throne of Graces,
Bright Queen of charming Faces;
Thou Soul of endless Passion,
Thou Tyrant of the Nation:
[Page 41] Thou God that dost inflame us,
Thou Fury sent to damn us;
How happy should we be
Proud foe wer't not for thee?
Numerous shining glories,
Adorn'd my Lovely Chloris;
Her Face was sweet as Summer,
Her Pride did well become her:
Her voice from Iove was given,
Each Angel flew from Heaven,
And smiling clapt his wing,
For Joy to hear her sing.
My Soul was still admiring,
This falser than a Syren;
I strongly did besiege her,
But ne're durst disoblige her:
But she like Frosty weather,
Nipt all my Buds together;
And thinking me untrue,
My fond heart did undoe.

Another made to a pleasant Tune.

VVHen to Paradice the Soul is brought,
The brightd wellers all flock to it;
In the eternal rosie Groves 'tis sought;
Fair she Saints, and Virgins woo it,
Angels, Cherubins still pursue it:
Breathing Love with Charming voice,
Angels, Cherubins still pursue it;
Singing Halelujahs of Celestial joys.
When fair Celia made my heart her prize,
Every sinew felt a pleasure,
Each kind look from her obliging Eyes;
Swell'd my joys beyond all measure:
Love, ah! Love is the only Treasure,
Joy and blessing of the brave and wise,
Give me love and life enough and leasure;
I'le never envy what the fool enjoys.

A Song to Cloris.

NO silly Cloris tell me no such
stories, true gen'rous Love can never
undoe ye, when I desert ye, let affected
vertue charm e-ve-ry Fop that now does
pursue ye; search all humane Nature,
try every Creature, Ransack all Com­plections,
[Page 44] [...]
every face and feature; and
when e're I dye you'l too late descry,
none ever yet did love so well as I.
Curse on Ambition,
What a blest Condition
Lovers were in, not aw'd by that Daemon,
Then cruell Cloris,
Careless of vain Glories,
Would reap more Bliss than pride e're could dream on;
We should have no dying,
No faint denying,
Sighings or repulses when the soul is flying.
Mammons triffling toys
She would then despise,
And own our Love the center of her joys.

A Song to Astrea.

YOU say I am false, and I freely confess,
Had you bin less Charming my flame had bin less;
But Love, cruel Tyrant, my pain to renew,
Though I'me fickle to most, makes me constant to you.
I play like a fly with the beams of your Eye,
And buzzing around it at last there I dye;
Sometimes brave my fate and break your strong Chain,
But one pretty glance takes me Prisoner agen.
Then never believe that Astrea can find
Her Celladon faithless if she be but kind,
For my heart like a Taper this quality gains,
That whilst it has matter gives luster and flames.

An Epithalamium Sung at the Marriage of the Lady W—

JOY to the Bridegroom! fill the sky
With pleasing sounds of welcom joy;
Joy to the Bride! may lasting bliss,
And every day still prove like this:
Joy to the, &c.
Never were Marriage joys divine,
But where two constant hearts combine;
He that proves false, himself does cheat,
Like sick men tast's but cannot eat:
He that, &c.
What is a Maidenhead? ah what?
Of which weak fools so often prate?
'Tis the young Virgins pride and boast,
Yet ne're was found but when 'twas lost:
'Tis the, &c.
Fill me a Glass then to the drink,
And its confusion here I'le drink;
And he that balks the health I nam'd,
May he dye young and then be dam'd:
And he that, &c.

A Catch.

NOW Interest sways the State,
Gets store of Coyn and store of curses,
The Clergy too of late,
Do crow'd their conscience in their Purses:
Since then Religion's grown a cheat,
And each black Robe with Vice is lin'd;
Let Love and Wine our bliss create,
And make us ever young and kind.

A Song in the Fond Husband.

NO more cruel Nimph my passion despise,
Or slight a poor Lover that languishing dies,
Though fortune my name with no Titles endu'd;
Yet fierce is my passion and warm is my blood:
The Love of an Emperour no greater can be,
And Enjoyment's the same in every degree.
But vig'rous and young I'le fly to thy Arms,
Infusing my Soul in Elyzium of Charms;
A Monarch I'le be when I lye by thy side,
And thy pretty hand my Scepter shall guide:
Thus charm'd with each other, true Rapture wee'l prove,
Whilst Angels look down and envy our Love.

The Clowns Courtship, a Song made and sung to the King at Windsor, to an ex­cellent Scotch Tune.

QUoth Iohn to Ioan, wilt thou have me?
I prethee now wilt, and Ise Marry with thee:
My Cow, my Cow, my House and Rents,
Aw my Lands and Tenements:
Say my Joan, say my Joaney, will that not do?
I cannot, I cannot, come every day to woe.
I have Corn and Hay in the Barn hard by,
And three fat Hogs pent up in the sty;
I have a Mare and she's cole black,
I ride on her Tail to save her back:
Say my Joan, &c.
I have a Cheese upon the shelf,
I cannot eat it all my self;
I have three gud Marks that lie in a rag,
In the nook of the Chimney instead of a bag:
Say my Joan, &c.
To marry I would have thy consent,
But faith I never could Complement;
I can say nought but hoy gee hoa,
Terms that belong to Cart and Plough:
Say my Joan, &c.

The Storm, a Song in Sir Barnaby Whigg.

BLow Boreas blow, and let thy surley winds
Make the Billows foam and roar,
Thou canst no terrour breed in Valiant minds;
But in spite of thee I'le live and find the shore:
Then cheer my hearts and be not aw'd,
But keep the Gun-room clear;
Though Hell's broke loose and the Devils roar abroad,
Whilst we have Sea-room, here boys never fear;
Hey how she tosses up, how far,
The mounting Topmast toucht a Star;
The Meteors blaz'd as through the Clouds we came,
And Salamander-like we live in flame;
But ah we sink, now, now we go
Down to the deepest shades below:
Alas where are we now? who, who, can tell?
Sure 'tis the lowest room in Hell,
Or where the Sea Gods dwell;
[Page 50] With them wee'l live, with them wee'l live and Reign,
With them wee'l laugh and sing and drink amain;
But see we mount, see, see, we rise again.

Second Movement.

Though flashes of Lightning and Tempests of Rain,
Do fiercely contend which shall conquer the Main;
Though the Captain does swear,
Instead of a Pray'r,
And the Sea is all fir'd by the Demons o'th Air;
Wee'l drink and defie the mad Spirits that fly,
From the deep to the sky;
And sing whilst the Thunder does bellow:
For Fate still will have,
A kind Fate for the brave,
And ne're make his Grave of a Salt­water wave:
To drown, drown, never to drown,
No never to drown a good fellow.

A Song in the Virtuous Wife, set by Mr. Farmer.

LET the Traytors Plot on, 'till at last they'r undon,
By hurting their Brains to decoy us;
We whose hearts are at rest, in our Loyalty's blest,
What Demon or power can annoy us?
Ambition like Wine, does the senses confound,
And Treason's a damnable thing;
Then let him that thinks well see his brimmers go round,
And pray for the safety and life of the King.


Let Caesar live long, let Caesar live long,
For ever be happy and ever be young;
And he that doth hope to change King for a Pope,
Let him dye, let him dye, whilst Caesar lives long.

Tony: A Ballad made occasionally by reading a late Speech made by a Noble PEER.

LET Oliver now be forgotten, his Policy's quite of doors,
Let Bradshaw and Hewson lye rotting like Sons of Phanatical Whores:
For Tony's grown a Patrician,
By Voting damn'd Sedition,
For many years fam'd Polititian;
The mouth of all Presbyter Peers.
Tony a Turncoat at Worcester,
Yet swore hee'd maintain the Kings right,
But Tony did swagger and bluster,
And never drew Sword on his side:
For Tony like an Old Stallian,
Had still the Pox of Rebellion,
And never was sound
Like a Camelion,
Still changing both his shape and his ground.
Old Rowley return'd (heaven bless him)
From exile and danger set free,
Sly Tony made hast to address him,
And swore none so Loyal as he:
The King that knew him a Traytor,
And saw him squint like a Satyr,
Yet through his Grace
Pardon'd the matter,
And gave him since the Purse and the Mace.
And now little Chancellor Tony,
With honour has feather'd his Wing,
And careful scrap't up the Money,
But never a Groat for the King:
But Tony's luck was confounded,
The Duke soon smoakt him a Round-head,
From head to heel
Tony was sounded;
And Y—k soon put a spoke in his Wheel.
But Tony that frets in his Passion,
Like Boy that has netled his breech,
Did late in the house take occasion
To make a most delicate speech:
He told the King like a Croney,
If e're he hope't to have Money
He must be Rul'd, Oh fine Tony!
Was ever Potent Monarch so school'd?
The King Issues forth Proclamation,
By Learned and Loyal Advice,
But Tony declares to the Nation,
The Council will never be wise:
For Tony Rayles at the Papist,
Yet is himself an Atheist,
Though so precize
Sneaking and Apish:
Like holy Quack or Priest in disguise.
But destiny shortly will cross it,
For Tony grows Gowty and Sick,
In spite of his Spiggot and Fawset,
The Statesman must go to Old Nick:
Yet Tony's madder and madder,
And M—blows like a Bladder,
And others too,
Who grow gladder,
That they Great Y—k are like to undo.
But now let this Rump of the Law see
A Maxime, and so we will part,
Who e're with his Prince is so sawcy,
'Tis fear'd is a Traytor in's heart:
Then Tony cease to be Witty,
By buzzing Treason i'th City,
And love the King,
So ends my ditty:
Or else may'st thou swing like a dog in a string.

The Generous Lover, a new Song, set by Mr. Tho. Farmer.

THE night her blackest Sables
wore, all gloomy were the skyes, and
glittering Stars there were no more, than
those in Stella's Eyes, when at her Fathers
[Page 57] [...]
Gate I knockt, where I had often bin, and
shrowded onely by her smock, this An-gel
let me in.
Fast lockt within my close Embrace,
She trembling lay aff [...]am'd,
Her swelling Breasts and glowing Face,
And every touch enflam'd:
My eager passion I obey'd,
Resolv'd the Fort to win,
And her fond heart was soon betray'd
To yield and let me in.
Ah! then beyond expressing▪
Immortal was the Joy,
I know no greater blessing;
So much a God was I▪
And she transported with delight,
Oft pray'd me come agen,
And kindly vow'd that every night
She'd rise and let me in.
But ah! at last she prov'd with Bearn,
And sighing sat and dull,
And I that was as much concern'd
Lookt then just like a Fool:
Her lovely Eyes with Tears ran o're,
Repenting her sweet sin,
She sight, and curst the fatal hour
That e're she let me in.
But who could cruelly deceive,
Or from such Beauty part?
I lov'd her so I could not leave
The Charmer for my heart;
But Wedded and conceal'd her Crime,
Thus all was well agen:
And now she thanks the blessed time,
That e're she let me in.


LOng did I Love to my Torment,
But Phillis grew Proud and Cruel,
Slighting all means of preferment,
I Languisht my life away,
Jealousies doubts and despairs
Did hourly encrease the Fuel;
Sighs and a deluge of Tears
Wore out the tedious day:
[Page 60] But now I know what the worst of Love is,
I'le leave it quite o're, and I'le languish no more,
Let the Amorous Cully despair;
My Love I will lend, to my Bottle and Friend,
And still live as free as Air.
Charming and bright as a Goddess,
Was Phillis when first I Lov'd her,
Now she is Proud and Immodest;
Ah pitty 'twas her Crime,
Though she too dearly did love it,
Shee'd raile when e're I mov'd her:
Scorn of a blessing they Covet,
Damns Women before their time;
Why should a Man that has sense and honour,
Doat on a snare that the Devil made fair,
As a Plague to the best of Mankind
They Love, Fawn and Pray, and yet hate the next day;
There's no joy like Wit and Wine.

Love's World: A Copy of Verses Tran­slated out of the French of Astrea, Written by my Uncle Durfe.

GReat Artist, Love, the sure Foundation laid,
And out of me another World has made;
The Earth is my Fidelity, which stands
Immovable by any Mortal hands;
And as this World upon the Earth is founded,
So this on my fidelity is grounded.
If any fits of jealousie do make,
The Earth of my fidelity to shake,
And cause my solid constant heart to tremble,
Imprison'd Winds exactly they resemble:
Which being in the pregnant Womb inclos'd,
Makes me and the whole Globe be discompos'd.
My Tears the Ocean are, as soon you may
Empty the Sea, as them dry up or stay;
[Page 62] My sighs so many storms are, which rebel
And make this Sea to bubble and to swell;
And my Eyes flowing Rivulets do glide,
Paying their constant Tribute to this Tyde.
The Air my Will is, pure Serene and free,
And always waits on my fidelity;
The Wind is my Desire, and rules my Will,
Which by the stronger gust is moved still;
And as in Caverns we do see the wind,
So my desire is in my heart confin'd.
The Fire Invisible mixt in the Air,
Those secret flames which burn my heart up, are;
And as this Element no Eye can see,
Even so my flames within me smother'd be;
But as all fire some nourishment does crave,
So must mine dye or nourishment must have.
My Hopes the Moon is, which does still increase
Or else diminish always more or less;
And as fair Silvia, I do find it true,
I have no light until supply'd by you;
So she no bright perfection ever won▪
'Till beautify'd with glories from the Sun.
The Sun is your Incomparable Eye,
Which other Planets does so far outvie;
That as the Sun life to the World does give,
So Lovers dye unless you bid 'em live;
'Tis day when you appear, and it is night,
Obscurely dark, when you are out of sight.
The Summer is my Joy, when you do please,
To shine upon me and my passions ease;
The Winter is my Fear, when you withdraw,
And my despairing doubts deny to thaw;
And then alas, what fruit can Autumn bring,
When I can find no flowers in my spring?

The Hornpipe.

BUT when the Bottles rowl
a—bout and Glasses, plague of all
Intrigues, a Pox on charming Faces:
Let the Pu—ny Lo-ver sigh, and whine,
and moan like a fluttering droan,
[Page 65] [...]
make an Insect humming, Beauty here
we see, more bright than any she,
ne—ver out of humour, kind, and always

The Caterwauling, a Song made at Epsom alluding to an Intrigue there.

TWO Cats were playing by a Well side,
And one of these two Cats fell in,
The Cat that was left most bitterly wept,
Because she was t'other Cats Cozen Jermain.
But e're she could hide her sorrows, and wipe
The Tears from her fair sweet Eyes that fell,
Malitious Fate brought another fierce Cat,
To see her bemoan her dear Love in the Well;
Some time this Cat in a Window had sat,
And seen her bemoan her dear Love in the Well.
This Cat of mode did the t'other Cat keep,
And had given her many a Rich Tabby Gown,
Deserted his Spouse, to feast her with his Mouse,
And made her outbrave all the Cats in the Town;
[Page 67] Her Champion was, in all Chances befell her,
And had often fought for her in Garret and Celler.
But now his heart with jealousie burns,
His Eyes he inflames, and his Claws does whet;
The loving Pur to loud howling he turns,
And Lyon-like stares on the other poor Cat:
Ah! false one, crys he, what a plague did you want,
To howl for this Fool, and desert your Gallant?
Have I so long bin your Cully and Fop,
And kept my poor Wife so long from Town?
Spent all my Estate to keep you at your rate;
Every Tooth in your head has cost me a Pound,
And am I thus Jilted by a Cat-Whore,
Go, go, you'r a Puss, and I'le see ye no more!

A Song in the Night Adventures, or Esq Oldsap, set by Mounsieur Graboe.

HOW frail is Old Age to believe
Their sinews can ever be strong,
Or think, that a heap
Of diseases can reap
The pleasures of him that is young.
Cho. He plunges in care let him do what he can,
So wretched a thing is a doting Old Man.
His life has been spent in Deboach,
'Till he comes to be sixty or more,
And so wenches on
'Till his vigour be gon,
And then the old Letcher gives o're.
Cho. A passion that's sickly can never last long,
And an Old doting Fool is far worse than a Young.

A Drinking Song.

COme fill the Glasses until they run o're,
Wine is the Mistress we ought to adore;
Women are pretty Fantastical toys,
Fit to please foolish and ignorant boys:
But Wine, Wine, 'tis Wine alone that affords the true joys;
'Tis Wine, 'tis Wine alone that affords the the true joys.
Wine keeps out envy and grief from our hearts,
Wine keeps us from blind Love and his darts;
We ne're at Fortunes Injustice complain,
Nor are we troubled for Celia's disdain:
But all, all, all our Cares are drown'd in Champaign,
All all our Cares are drown'd in Champaign.
Come fill the Glass and I'le drink a new health,
Which shall not be to my Wit or my Wealth,
Or to my Mistress, to his, or to thine,
But to a Creature more rare and divine:
Come here, here, here, to the best—
I mean the best Wine;
Here, here's to the best, I mean the best Wine.

A Catch by another hand.

THough the Town be destroy'd, since our selves we enjoy,
Where e're we reside wee'l make a new Troy;
When weary of one place our minds compass all,
Thus Man's the great World, and the Globe's but the small.


Then drink your Veins full, and whilst waters glide
About the dull Earth, let Wine be your Tide.
Then drink your Veins full, and whilst waters glide
About the dull Earth, let wine be your Tide.


SOme Thirty or Forty or Fifty at least,
Or more, I have lov'd in vain, in vain,
But if you'l vouchsafe to receive a poor guest,
For once I will venture again, again.
How long I shall be in this mind, this mind,
Is totally in your own power;
All my days I can pass with the kind, the kind,
But I'le part with the Proud in an hour.
Then if you'l be good natur'd, and civil, and civil,
You'l find I can be so too, so too;
But if not, you may go, you may go to the Devil,
Or the Devil may come to you, to you.

The Libertine: A Song set to a Tune call'd Farmers Maggot.

WHilst Love Predominates over our Souls,
A Pox on Counsel from tedious Old Fools;
Reproofs of the Church-men but whet us the more,
Whilst liberty Teaches,
And appetite Preaches,
No wealth like a Bottle, no joy like a Wh—
Long Tales of Heav'n to Fools are given,
But we put in pleasure to make the Scale even;
Thus Kissing, and Wenching, and Drinking brave Boys,
We drive out Collicks
By nightly Frolicks,
And drown short Life in a Deluge of Joys.
We choose our Misses by goodness of Face,
And hate your formal Fops like a long Grace;
The Minions of Fortune we slight and reprove,
'Tis she's the Fairy,
That proves most Airy,
[Page 73] And Courts our acquaintance with passion and love:
Let the Zealous Mizer think he is wiser,
That late kept a Wench, but now is preciser;
Whilst we sit and Revel here free from mishaps,
With Girls as willing,
As we for a Shilling,
And fear nought, but Duns, bad Clarret and Claps.

Another Song Translated out of the French of my Uncle D'urfe.

THis restless River that does run,
Wave after wave as it begun;
Is like the sorrows that do flow,
Upon my Soul, woe after woe.
As that compell'd by Nature wanders,
Murmuring it self into Meanders;
So I oprest by Fortune rove,
Murmuring against my Fate and Love.

A Scotch Sung, sung at the Artillery Feast.

WOONS, what noo is the
mat—ter! gud feth 'tis won—d'rous
strange; the Whiggs do keep sike a
clatter that nean can pass th' Exchange.
They cry bread it is pitty, their numbers
are no more, the Duke does dine in the
[Page 75] [...]
City, and muckle they fear his power.
They begin the awd trick agen, and
Cabal like awd Nick a-gen, Feast
three hundred pound thick agen, sike a
height they soar: Ah bonny London, thour't
undone if e're thou art in their power.
The wise Old E—with the Spiggot,
That never knew rest or ease,
Ods bread is grown sike a Bigot;
The Nation has his disease.
More I think I could name ye,
That make this raree show,
Bold George, and Politick Iemmy;
Converted by Doctor TO.
Both the Sheriffs there should ha bin,
Then how merry they would ha bin,
Met for National good agen,
As they were before,
Ah bonny London,
Thou'rt undone,
If long thou art in their power.
More to shew us what Ninnys
Are all Rebellious beasts,
The Cuckolds sent in their Guinnys,
To make up this Godly Feast.
[Page 77] Never caring or thinking
What Insolence was done,
Or that their Plotting and Drinking;
Should e're be oppos'd so soon.
But when they knew they were barr'd agen,
They sent out the Black Guard agen,
All our Bonfires were marr'd agen;
Slaves did shout and roar:
Ah bonny London,
Thou'rt undone,
If e're thou art in their power.
Right and Royalty Governs,
Which Rebels would overthrow,
They once were fatal to Soveraigns;
Ah let 'em no more be so.
But to baffle Oppression,
Inspir'd by Fate divine,
Defend the Crown and Succession;
And keep it in the Right-Line.
[Page 78] Every Soldier will fight for it,
Each bold Genius will write for it,
And the Whigs hang in spite for it,
Losing Regal power:
And bonny London,
They're undone,
That thought to usurp once more.

The Spinning Wheel, a Pastoral, made at New-Hall, and Sung to the KING at Windsor.

UPon a sunshine Summers day,
When every Tree was green and gay,
The Morning blusht with Phebus ray,
Just then ascending from the Sea,
As Silvio did a Hunting ride,
A lovely Cottage he espy'd;
Where lovely Chloe Spinning sat,
And still she turn'd her Weel about.
Her Face a Thousand Graces crown,
Her Curling hair was lovely brown,
Her Rowling Eyes ah hearts did win,
And white as down of Swans her skin;
So taking her plain dress appears,
Her Age not passing sixteen years,
The Swain lay sighing at her foot,
Yet still she turn'd her Wheel about.
Thou sweetest of thy tender kind,
Cries he, this ne're can suit thy mind,
Such Grace attracting noble Loves,
Was ne're design'd for Woods and Groves▪
Come, come with me to Court my Dear,
Partake my Love and Honour there;
And leave this Rural sordid rout,
And turn no more thy Wheel about.
At this with some few modest sighs,
She turns to him her Charming Eyes;
Ah! tempt me Sir no more she cries,
Nor seek my weakness to surprize,
[Page 80] I know your Arts to be believ'd,
I know how Virgins are deceiv'd;
Then let me thus my Life wear out,
And turn my harmless Wheel about.
By that dear panting breast cries he,
And yet unseen divinity;
Nay by my Soul that rests in thee,
I swear this cannot, must not be;
Ah cause not my eternal woe,
Nor kill the Man that loves thee so;
But go with me and ease my doubt,
And turn no more thy Wheel about.
His Cunning Tongue so play'd its part,
He gain'd admission to her heart;
And now she thinks it is no sin,
To take Loves fatal poyson in;
But ah too late she found her fault,
For he her Charms had soon forgot;
And left her e're the year ran out,
In tears to turn her Wheel about.

Advice to the City: Sung to the King at Windsor, to a Theorbo.

REmember ye VVhiggs what was formerly
Remember your mischiefs in Forty and One;
When friend oppos'd friend, and Father the Son,
Then, then your Old Cause went rarely on:
The Cap sat aloft, and low was the Crown,
The Rabble got up and the Nobles went down;
Lay Elders in Tubs, rul'd Bishops in Robes,
Who mourn'd the sad fate
And dreadful disaster, of their Royal Master
By Rebels betraid.


Then London be wise and baffle their power,
And let 'em play the Old Game no more;
Hang, hang up the Sh—
Those Baboons in power,
Those popular Thieves,
Those Rats of the Tower,
[Page 82] Whose Canting Tales the Rabble believes;
In a hurry
And never sorry
Merrily they go on:
Fy for shame, we're too tame, since they claim
The Combat:
Tan tarra rarra, Tan tarra rarra,
Dub a dub, let the Drum beat,
The strong Militia guards the Throne.
When Faction possesses the Popular Voice,
The Cause is supply'd still with Nonsence
and Noise;
And Tony their Speaker the Rabble leads on,
For he knows if we prosper that he must run;
Carolina must be his Station of ease,
And London be rid of her worsest disease:
From Plots and from Spies,
From Treasons and Lies
We shall ever be free,
And the Law shall be able, to punish a Rebel
As cunning as he.


Then London be wise and baffle their power,
And let 'em play the Old Game no more;
Hang, hang up the Sh—
Those Baboons in power,
Those popular Thieves,
Those Rats of the Tower,
Whose Canting Tales the Rabble believes;
In a hurry
And never sorry
Merrily they go on:
Fy for shame, we're too tame, since they claim
The Combat:
Tan tarra rarra, Tan tarra rarra,
Dub a dub, let the Drum beat,
The strong Militia guards the Throne.
Rebellion ne're wanted a Loyal pretence,
These Villains, swear all's for the good of
their Prince;
Oppose our Elections to show what they dare,
And losing their Charter arrest the Mayor;
[Page 84] Fool Ie—was the Captain of the Cuckoldy
With Ell—and Iea—and H—the Jew;
Fam'd sparks of the Town
For wealth and renown,
Give the Devil his due,
And such as we fear, had our Soveraign bin
Had arrested him too.


Then London be wise and baffle their power,
And let 'm play the Old Game no more;
Hang, hang up the Sh—
Those Baboons in power,
Those popular Thieves,
Those Rats of the Tower,
Whose Canting Tales the Rabble believes;
In a hurry
And never sorry
Merrily they go on:
Fy for shame, we're too tame, since they claim
The Combat:
Tan tarra rarra, Tan tarra rarra,
Dub a dub, let the Drum beat,
The strong Militia guards the Throne.

A Song, Sung to the King at his Enter­tainment at my Lord Conways at Windsor.

WHen Godlike Caesar from his Throne,
Decends to tast of Mortal Joy,
And from his awful hand lays down
The dazling Rains of Monarchy:
The Queen of Love and Beauty flies,
To calm his frowns and cares release;
Brim full of liquid Love her Eyes,
And Breast like the white land of Peace.
Then, then an equal power they show,
In Union all true bliss relies,
He carries Thunder in his brow;
She killing Lightning in her Eyes:
Yet only hurtful to her foes,
Whose brutal Malice she would tame,
O're others it divinely grows,
A Glory in a Lambent flame.
In Love is our Eternal rest,
Salvation there does chiefly lie,
In Caesars pleasure we are blest;
In his content depends our joy:
So Iove and Pregnant nature prove,
The blessings they for us design'd;
Since from their everlasting Love
Springs all the joys of human kind.

The Court Star: A Poem, on the Dutches of—.

VVE all to Conquering Beauty bow,
Its Influence I admire,
But never saw a Star 'till now
That like you could inspire:
Now I may say I met with one,
Amazes all Mankind,
And like Men gazing on the Sun;
With too much light am blind.
Like the bright Genious of your Race,
You spread your Influence,
Your one Sex borrows from your Face;
And ours from your sence:
Pardon me, since my thoughts I raise,
With this blest Theam delighted,
For since all loudly speak your praise,
Then when shou'd I not write it.
The glittering Temple of our God,
Is deckt with forms divine,
But amongst all the heavenly Crowd,
Is ne're a Face like thine;
The strictest zeal Apostate stands,
When so much Grace they view,
To heaven they trembling lift their hands;
But Eyes and hearts to you.
Calm as the tender moving sighs,
When longing Lovers meet;
Like the divining Prophets wise,
And like blown Roses sweet:
Modest yet Gay, reserv'd yet free,
Each happy night a Bride,
A Mein like awful Majesty,
And yet no spark of Pride.
The Patriarch to gain a Wife,
Chast, Beautiful and Young,
Serv'd Fourteen years of painful life,
Yet never thought 'em long;
Ah! were you to reward such cares,
And Life so long could stay,
Not Fourteen, but Four Hundred years;
Would seem but as one day.
Thus when eternal kindness flow'd,
E're wretched Adam sinn'd,
Heavens bounteous hand on him bestow'd;
A lovely Female friend.
I know not how he priz'd that life,
But this I'me sure is ture,
If a true blessing be a Wife,
She then must be like you.

Books Printed for, and sold by Joseph Hind­marsh, at the Black Bull in Cornhill, over against the Royal Exchange.

THe History of the Civil Wars of France, Written in Italian by H. C. D' Avila, Translated out of the Original. The Second Impression, whereunto is added a Table.

Reliquiae Raleighanae; being Discourses and Sermons on several subjects. By the Reverend Dr. Walter Raleigh, Dean of Wells, and Chaplain in Ordinary to his late Majesty King Charles the First.

Sermons upon Faith and Providence, and other Subjects. By the late Reverend William Outram, D. D. Prebend of Westminster, and Chaplain in Ordinary to his Majesty.

Loyalty and Peace; or, two seasonable Dis­courses from 1 Sam. 24. 5. viz. David's Heart smote him, because he cut off Saul's Skirts; the first of Conscience and its Smiting. The second of the prodigious impiety of Murther­ing King Charles the First: Intended to pro­mote sincere Devotion and Humiliation upon each Anniversary Fast for the late Kings Death.

The good Old Way, or a Discourse offered to all true hearted Protestants concerning the Ancient Way of the Church, and the Confor­mity of the Church of England thereunto, as to [Page] its Government, Manner of Worship, Rites, and Customs: By Edward Pelling, Rector of St. Martin Ludgate, and Chaplain to his Grace the Duke of Somerset.

An impartial account of the Arraignment, Tryal, and Condemnation of Thomas late Earl of Strafford, and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, before the Parliament at Westminster, Anno Dom. 1641.

The Loyal Citizen revived: A Speech made by Alderman Garraway, at a Common Hall on Thursday, the 17th of Ianuary, 1642. upon occasion of a Speech delivered there the Friday before, by Mr. Pym, at the reading of his Majesties answer to the late Petition.

The unfortunate Heroes; or, the Adventures of ten Famous men, viz. Ovid, Lentulus, Hor­tensius, Herennius, Cepion, Horace, Virgil, Cornelius, Galus, Cerssus, Agrippa; Banished from the Court of Augustus Caesar: In ten Novels. Com­posed by that great Wit of France, Monsieur de Villa Dieu. Englished by a Gentleman for his diversion.

[...], or King Iames's In­structions to his Dearest Son Henry the Prince, now reprinted by his Majesties Command.

The Ingratitude of a Commonwealth, or the fall of Caius Martius Coriolanus, as it is Acted at the Theater Royal: By N. Tate.

[Page] The London Cuckolds, a Comedy as it is Acted at the Dukes Theater: By E. Rrvenscrot Gent.

Sir Barnaby Whig, or no Wit like a Womans, a Comedy, as it is Acted by their Majesties Servants at the Theater Royal: By T. D'urfey, Gent.

A short account or state of Mr. Sheridan's Case before the late House of Commons, in a letter to T. I.

The Progress of honesty, or a view of a Court and City, a Pindarique Poem: By T. D'urfey, Gent.

Mercurius Menippeus, the Loyal Satyrist; or Hudibras in prose, written by an unknown Hand, in the time of the late Rebellion, but never 'till now Published.

Satyrs upon the Iesuits.

Some new pieces never before Printed, by the Author of the Satyrs against Iesuits.

The Poets complaint of his Muse, or a Satyr against Libels, a Poem: By Thomas Otway.

An exact Journal of the siege of Tangier, from the first setting down of the Moors before it, on March the 25th. 1681. to the late Truce May the 26th following, in three Letters, writ­ten by three Eye witnesses of the whole transaction.

A discourse touching Tangier, on these Heads: 1. The service Tangier has already [Page] rendred the Crown. 2. What service it may render if improved. 3. The mischief it may do us if possest by any other powerful Prince. 4. Some general observations touching Trade. A-la-mode Plebotomy no good fashion: or the copy of a Letter to Dr. Hungerford, by Richard Griffith of Richmond in Surrey. M. D.

The Apostate Protestant, a Letter to a Friend, occasioned by the late Reprinting of a Iesuits Book, about Succession to the Crown of England, pretended to have been written by R. Doleman.

Scandalum Magnatum, or, Potapski's Case: A Satyr against Polish Oppression.

Butler's Ghost; or, Hudibras: The Fourth Part, with Reflections upon these Times.

The English Remedy; or, Talbor's wonderful Secret, for Curing of Agues and Feavers: Sold by the Author Sir Robert Talbor, to the most Christian King, and since his Death, ordered by his Majesty to be Published in French, for the Benefit of his Subjects. And now Translated into English for publick good.


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