The northern thistle, whom no hoftile hand
Unhurt too rudely may provoke, I ween;
Hibernia's harp, device of her command,
And parent
of her mirth, fhall there be feen:
Thy vanquish'd lillies, France, decay'd and torn,
Shall with diforder'd pomp the lafting work adorn,

XXXV.

ftring,

Beneath, great Queen, oh! very far beneath, Near to the ground, and on the humble bafe, To fave herself from darkness and from death, That Mufe defires the laft, the lowest place; Who, though unmeet, yet touch'd the trembling For the fair fame of Anne and Albion's land, Who durft of war and martial fury fing; And when thy will, and when thy fubject's hand, Had quell'd those wars, and bid that fury cease; Hangs up her grateful harp to conqueft, and to peace.

HER RIGHT

RIGHT NAME.

As Nancy at her toilet fat,

Admiring this, and blaming that;

Tell me, the faid; but tell me true;

The nymph who could your heart fubdue,
What fort of charms does the poffefs?

Abfolve me, fair one: I'll confefs;

With pleasure I reply'd. Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bofom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love fits in open triumph crown'd:
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state by friends is feen.
Her eyes are neither black nor grey;
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious luftre feems to show
Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No.
Her lips no living bard I weet.

May fay, how red, how round, how fweet;

Old Homer only could indite,

Their vagrant grace and foft delight:

They ftand recorded in his book,

When Helen fmil'd, and Hebe spoke---
The gypfy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly fhew'd fhe knew the face;
And which am I most like, she said,
Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid?

CANTATA.

CAN

TAT

A¿

Set by Monfieur GALLIARD.

RECIT.

BENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade,

His lyre to mournful numbers ftrung, Horace, immortal bard, fupinely laid, To Venus thus addrefs'd the fong: Ten thousand little loves around, Liftening, dwelt on every found. ARIET,

Potent Venus, bid thy fon

Sound no more his dire alarms.
Youth on filent wings is flown:
Graver years come rolling on.
Spare my age, unfit for arms:
Safe and humble let me reft,
From all amorous care releas'd.

Potent Venus, bid thy fon

Sound no more his dire alarms.

RECIT.

Yet Venus, why do I each morn prepare

The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair?

Why do I all day lament and figh,

Unless the beauteous maid be nigh?

And why all night purfue her in my dreams, Through flowry meads and crystal streams?

RECIT.

Thus fung the Bard; and thus the Goddess spoke: Submiffive bow to Love's imperious yoke:

Every state, and every age,

Shall own my rule, and fear my rage:
Compell'd by me, thy Mufe fhall prove,
That all the world was born to love.

ARIET

Bid thy deftin'd lyre discover
Soft defire and gentle pain:

Often praise, and always love her :

Through her ear, her heart obtain.

Verse shall please, and fighs shall move her,
Cupid does with Phoebus reign.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID:*

OVID is the fureft guide,

You can name, to fhew the way

To any woman, maid or bride,

Who refolves to go aftray.

A TRUE

Tranflated from the following Madrigal of Gilbert, fur l'Art d'Aimer de Ovide.

A TRUE

MAID.

No, no; for my virginity,

When I lose that, fays Rofe, I'll die :
Behind the elms, last night, cry'd Dick,
Rofe, were you not extremely fick ?

A NOT HER.

TEN months after Florimel happen'd to wed,
And was brought in a laudable manner to bed:
She warbled her groans with fo charming a voice,
That one half of the parish was ftun'd with the noife;
But when Florimel deign'd to lie privately in,
Ten months before she and her spouse were a-kin,
She chose with fuch prudence her pangs to conceal,
That her nurse, nay her midwife, fcarce heard her
once fqueal.

Ou l'efprit prend plaifir d'errer,
Philis, fuivez les pas d'Ovide,
C'eft le plus agreable guide,
Qu'on peut choifir pour s'egarer,

Learn,