At last, my wishes to fulfil, Yet I by this have learn'd the wit Contentedly I will submit, And think that best which they think fit, Without the least regret. SET BY C. R. CHLOE beauty has and wit, And an air that is not common; Every charm in her does meet, Fit to make a handsome woman. But we do not only find Here a lovely face or feature, For she's merciful and kind; Beauty's answered by good-nature. She is always doing good, Of her favours never sparing; And, as all good Christians should, Keeps poor mortals from despairing. Jove the power knew of her charms, And that no man could endure them, So, providing 'gainst all harms, Gave to her the power to cure them. SINCE, Moggy, I mun bid adieu, There's nought more worth my caring. Farewell, ye brooks! no more along But I by death an end will give SOME kind angel, gently flying, Tell her too, not distant places, (Will she be but true and kind) Join'd with time and change of faces, E'er shall shake my constant mind. HASTE, my Nannette, For thee alone I made the bower, None but my sheep Shall near us come: Great god of love, Take thou my crook, From Nannette's flock. Guard thou the sheep To her so dear; My own, alas! Are less my care. But of the wolf Come not to us To call for aid; For with her swain My love shall stay, WHILST others proclaim Dearest Nelly the lovely I'll sing; She shall grace every verse, I'll her beauties rehearse, Which lovers can't think an ill thing. Her eyes shine as bright As stars in the night; Her complexion divinely is fair; Her lips red as a cherry, Would a hermit make merry, And black as a coal is her hair. Her breath, like a rose, Like ivory inchased, Her teeth are well placed; An exquisite beauty she is. She's blooming as May, Brisk, lively, and gay, The Graces play all round about her; She's prudent and witty, Sings wondrously pretty, And there is no living without her. TALES. THE TURTLE AND SPARROW. AN ELEGIAC TALE'. BEHIND an unfrequented glade, And wept her murder'd lover's fate. But how they did their thoughts express, T. My hopes are lost, my joys are fled, 1 This piece was written upon the sincere affection shown by Queen Anne for the loss of her royal consort, Prince George of Denmark, 1708. |