SONG.
Rink about till the day find us,
These are Pleasures that will last;
Let no foolish Paffion blind us,
Joys of Love they fly too faft.
Maids are long e're we can win 'um,
And our Paffions wafte the while,
In a Beer-glafs we'll begin 'um,
Let fome Beau take th' other Toil.
Yet we will have ftore of good Wenches,
Though we venture fluxing for't,
Upon Couches, Chairs, and Benches,
To out-do them at the Sport.
Joyning thus both Mirth and Beauty,
To make up our full Delight:
In Wine and Love we pay our Duty
To each friendly coming Night.
SONG
Ove still has fomething of the Sea,
From whence his Mother rofe;
No time his Slaves from Doubt can free,
Nor give their Thoughts repose:
They are becalm'd in clearest Days,
And in rough Weather toft;
They wither under cold Delays,
Or are in Tempefts loft.
One while they seem to touch the Port,
Then ftraight into the Main,
Some angry Wind in cruel fport
The Veffel drives again.
At first Difdain and Pride they fear,
Which if they chance to 'fcape,
Rivals and Falfhood foon appear.
In a more dreadful fhape.
By fuch Degrees to Joy they come,
And are fo long withstood,
So flowly they receive the Sum,
It hardly does them good.
'Tis cruel to prolong a Pain,
And to defer a Joy;
Believe me, gentle Celemene
Offends the winged Boy,
An hundred thousand Oaths your Fears
Perhaps would not remove;
And if I gaz'd' a thousand Years
I could no deeper love.
SONG
Hillis, you have enough enjoy'd
The Pleafures of Difdain;
Methinks your Pride fhou'd now be cloy'd, And grow it felf again:
Open to Love your long-fhut Breast,
And entertain its sweetest Guest.
Love heals the Wounds that Beauty gives,
And can ill Ufage flight;
He laughs at all that Fate contrives,
Full of his own Delight;
We in his Chains are happier far
Than Kings themselves without 'em áre
Leave then to tame Philofophy,
The Joys of Quietness;
With me into Love's Empire fly;
And tafte my Happiness:
Where even Tears and Sighs can show
Pleafures, the Cruel never know.
Madam, for your Commands to ftay,
Is the mean Duty of a Wretch,
Whofe Service you with Wages pay;
Lovers should at occafion catch,
Not idly wait till it be brought,
But with the Deed o'er take your Thought;
Honour and Love let them give o'er,
Who do their Duty, and no more.
Awake,my Eyes,at Night my Thoughts pursue
Your charming Shape, and find it ever new;
If I my weary Eyes to Sleep refign,
In gaudy Dreams your Love and Beauty fhine;
Dreams with fuchExtafies and Pleasures fill'd,
As to thofe Joys they feem can only yield;
Nor do they yield perhaps, wou'd you allow,
Fair Amidea, that I once might know.
CELIA.
AS in thofe Nations, where they yet adore
Marble and Cedar, and their Aid implore:
"Tis not the Workman,nor the precious Wood, But 'tis the Worshipper that makes the God So,cruel Fair,though Heaven has giv'n you all, We Mortals (Vertue or can Beauty) call, "Tis we that give the Thunder to your Frowns, Darts to your Eyes, and to our felves the Wounds :
Without our Love, which proudly you deride, Vain where your Beauty, and more vain your Pride;
All envy'd Beings that the World can fhew,
Still to fome meaner things their greatnefsowe;
Subjects make Kings, and we (the numerous
Train
Of humble Lovers) conftitute thy Reign.
This difference only Beauty's Realm may
boast,
Where moft it favours, it enflaves the most ;
And they to whom it is indulgent found,
Are ever in the fureft Fetters bound :
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