HER RIGHT NAME. AS S Nancy at her toilet fat, Admiring this, and blaming that, The Nymph who could your heart fubdue. Their dubious luftre feems to show May fay, how red, how round, how sweet; Old Homer only could indite Their vagrant grace and foft delight: G 3 CANTATA. CANT AT A. SET BY MONSIEUR GALLIARD. RECIT. BENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade, Horace, immortal bard, fupinely laid, ARIET. Potent Venus, bid thy fon Sound no more his dire alarms. 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, And why all night pursue her in my dreams, 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: ARIET. Bid thy deftin'd lyre difcover Through her ear, her heart obtain. TRUE M A I D. No, no; for my virginity, When I lofe that, fays Rofe, I'll die Behind the elms, laft night, cry'd Dick, Rofe, were you not extremely fick ? G 4 ANO ANOTHER. 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 stunn'd with the noise. But, when Florimel deign'd to lie privately in, Ten months before she and her spouse were a-kin; She chose with such prudence her pangs to conceal, That her nurse, nay her midwife, scarce heard her once fqueal. Learn, husbands, from hence, for the peace of your lives, That maids make not half fuch a tumult as wives. A REASONABLE AFFLICTION. On his death-bed poor Lubin lies; His spouse is in despair: With frequent fobs, and mutual cries, A different caufe, fays parfon Sly, Poor Lubin fears that he fhall die; His wife, that he may live. A NO ANOTHER REASONABLE AFFLICTION. FROM her own native France as old Alifon past, She reproach'd English Nell with neglect or with That the flattern had left, in the hurry and hafte, ANO THE R. HER eye-brow-box one morning loft, Sad Helen thus to Jenny said I can behold no mortal now: ON THE SAME SUBJECT. N a dark corner of the house IN Poor Helen fits, and fobs, and cries Nor her more dear picquet allies: Unless she find her eye-brows, ON |