LONDON, Printed for Richard Tonson, at his Shop under Grayes-Inn-gate next Grayes-Inn-lane MDCLXXVII.

[Page] [Page 1]THE SONGS IN CIRCE.

Act I. Scene Circe's Cave.

This is sung by her Women at the Infernal Sacrifice. Priests joyn in the Chorus.

WE must assemble by a Sacrifice
Those Demons who do range about the skies;
Their necessary aid you use,
Those poys'nous Herbs and Roots to chuse;
Which mingl'd, and prepar'd by your strong Art,
Do to your Charms their chiefest force impart:
Your Censors to the Altar take,
And with Arabian Gums sweet Odours make,
The Air with Musick gently wound:
Sweet smells they love, and every pleasing sound.
COme every Demon who o're-fees
The Fates of mighty Monarchies,
And orders how they rise and set;
All you who Love and Lust inspire,
And kindle wild Ambition's fire,
The dang'rous sickness of the Great.
Circe, the Daughter of the Sun obey,
Or in his gilded Beams you ne'r shall play.
You who hatch Factions in the Court,
Sedition in the meaner sort,
Amongst the Pious, holy Strife;
Tumults in Camps, in Senates too
Those Discords which the good undo,
All, all that wait on humane life.
Circe, the Daughter, &c.
LOvers! who to their first embraces go,
Are slow and languishing compar'd to you;
In speed you can out-do the winged Wind,
And leave ev'n Thought, creeping and tyr'd behind.

A Spirit rises, and layes a Jarr at Circe's feet.

Behold, quick as thy thought,
Th' Ingredients of thy Spells are brought,
By which thy dismal Bus'ness must be wrought.
Great Minister of Fate,
In this deep Cave you sit in state,
Famine and Pestilence about you wait;
At your dread word they fly through every Land,
Whilst their fierce undiscerning rage
Do's pity neither Sex nor Age.
Death is as blind as Love, at your command.
Each Plant and Herb have all their poyson sent;
On what new mischef is your Magick bent?

By a Priest alone.

PLuto, arise!
From those blest shades where Kings and Lovers are,
Where those no torment have from state and care,
And those feel not the torment of Despair.

Act II. Scene, A Port with the Graecian Fleet.

Sung by Furies.

THis impious Breast you Furies fill!
With all that Hell of Horror does contain,
Gnaw, gnaw his Heart; you Scorpions still.
But from himself he feels the sharpest pain.
But from himself he feels the sharpest pain.
For any other humane Crime
Tears and Repentance may Oblations be,
But nothing shall atone for him.
The damn'd may sooner pardon find than He.
The damn'd may, &c.

Sung by Iris on a Rainbow.

CEase valiant Hero! cease to grieve;
The Gods thy Pray'rs and Penitence receive:
You cannot sin so fast as they forgive.
All the attempts of Hell are vain,
O're that, and grief, you shall the Conquest gain;
A Pardon your unwilling Crimes obtain.
You Spirits made of Air refind,
With pleasing Objects chear his clouded Mind;
No foot-steps leave of former guilt behind.

Sung by Syrens in the Sea.

AH! how happy are we!
Who from Bus'ness, that graver folly, are free;
Let us love, though the sober should blame us.
A curse on the Wise,
They need not advise,
Age makes too much haste to reclaim us.
Let us carelesly move
In the riots of Wit, and follies of Love:
Our age does to pleasure invite us;
[Page 6] But when we are old
And our Blood grows cold,
Not Art nor Fif [...]een can incite us.

Act III. Scene, the Temple of Diana Taurica.

Sung by Priests.

OH! Heav'nly Virgin! from thy starry Throne,
Look down on Scythia, thy most holy Seat,
Our Arms with Victory and Trophies crown.
'Tis easie to be Good when we are Great.
Tis just Mankind should at thy Altar bleed,
Who thy small Empire Chastity invade;
Whatever happy Lover does succeed,
From chaste Diana's Province steals a Maid.

By a Priest alone.

O Cheated Mortals, what has Life of sweet?
Who is contented with the present day?
Our present joy is a vain hope, we may
From the next hour some ease and pleasure meet.
That Courtier, Life, does feed
Poor Mortals with a hope they shall succeed:
We will be wise, and dye, prepare the sacred Knife,
Farewel! farewel! thou valu'd trifle, Life.
Wound, wound the Victim, pierce his sacred Breast,
And give his lab'ring Soul eternal rest.

Act IV. Scene Circe's Garden.

Sung by her Women.

SIgh, Lovers! sigh!
The God of Love inspires
Kind gentle thoughts, and warm desires;
See the Winds blow, the flowers move!
'Tis Nature that doth sigh for Love.
Hark! hark! the Birds,
Alas, they do not sing
To welcome in the Beaut'ous Spring;
But in their untaught Notes complain
Of Love, our Universal pain.

Sung by her Women.

YOung Phaon strove the bliss to taste,
But Sappho still deny'd;
He struggl'd long, the Youth at last
Lay panting by her side.
Useless he lay, Love would not wait
Till they could both agree;
They idely languish'd in debate
When they should active be,
At last, come ruine me, she cry'd,
And then there fell a Tear,
I'l in thy Breast my Blushes hide;
Do all that Virgins fear.
Oh, that Age could Loves rites perform!
We make old men obey,
They court us long; Youth do's but storm
And plunder, and away.

Sung by Orpheus sitting on Parnassus.

GIve me my Lute, in thee some ease I find,
Euridice is dead,
And to that dismal Country fled
Where all is sad and gloomy as my mind.
The World has nothing worth a Lover's care:
None now by Rivers weep,
Verse and the Lute are both asleep;
All Women now are false, and few are fair.
Thy Scepter, Love, shall o're the Aged be,
Lay by thy useless darts;
For all our Youth will guard their hearts,
And scorn thy fading Empire, taught by me.
Beauty, the Thracian Youth no more shall move;
Now they shall sigh no more,
But all my noble Verse adore,
It has more graces than the Queen of Love.

Sung by Cupid.

HOw dull is all the World! that none should move
In the Cause of injur'd Love.
The Bad are safe; Heav'ns idle Thunder tears
Mountains; but the Guilty spares.
[Page 11] Mortal! our holy Altars then shall be
Ever thus prophan'd by Thee;
If Poets, Beauties faithful Train, rebell,
Vows and Incense all farewell.
How can thy noble Art ungrateful prove,
Fed by Beauty and by Love?
Hark! hark! these Bells and Berecynthian pipes declare
That Thrace a Feast to Bacchus does prepare;
The raging Bacchinals his rites fulfill,
They shall revenge me, and the Rebel kill.

Enter Bacchinals and sing.

FIll all the Bowls with sprightly Wine,
And let the Women drink:
Men visit now, are very fine,
Talk much, and never think.
Sure these Follies our Sex may claim as their due,
Since Mankind encroaches
On our small Debauches,
New Manly delights let the Women pursue.
This comfort poor Cuckolded Ladies did find,
To drown in full Bowls
The Cares of their Souls,
When the Husband is false and the Gallant unkind.
In empty Beds we absent Lovers mourn:
There sits the Man that do's our Empire scorn:
[Page 12] He makes the Thracian Youth despise
Warm swelling Breasts and dying eyes.
Make ready your darts and valiantly fling,
Let him dye, to his groans we'l dance and we'l sing.

Act V. Scene, a City.

Sung by the God of sleep.

THe noise of humane life forsake,
Where Love and Bus'ness keep the World awake.
Some quiet Mansion seek,
Where Fames loud call shall not our slumbers break.
But happy Ignorance, upon thy careless Breast,
Methinks we take the gentlest rest.
Sleep, sleep within a drowsie Cave
Dark! dark! and silent as the Grave.

Sung by Circe's Women.

MAids in wishes stretch and pant,
Wives the nightly Blessing want.
Careful Love their Torment sees,
Sends 'em Dreams, and they have ease.
[Page 13] VVomen can be chast in spite,
Gallants must retire to night.
Careful Love, &c.

Sung by Phobetor.

BEgon fair Visions, to the Court remove,
VVhose Bus'ness is to dream of Love;
And you black Terrors of the night appear,
You wild Creations of our wilder fear.
You dismal Visions that on Guilt attend,
Furies and Fiends from Hell ascend:
Religion finds you better far than Law,
To ride Mankind, and keep the VVorld in awe.
Oh Horror! Horror! from Deaths gloomy shade
Arise! arise! the frighted VVorld invade.

Antony and Cleopatra, a Tragedy: as it is acted at the Duke's Theatre. VVritten by the Honourable Sir Charles Sedley Baronet. Sold by Richard Tonson at his shop under Grayes-Inn-gate, next Grayes-Inn-lane.

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