Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy Volume V Part 36

_Delia_ tir'd _Strephon_ with her Flame, While languishing, while languishing she view'd him; The well dress'd Youth despis'd the Dame, But still, still; but still the old Fool pursu'd him: Some pity on a Wretch bestow, That lyes at your Devotion; Perhaps near fifty Years ago, Perhaps near fifty Years ago, I might have lik'd the Motion.

If you, proud Youth, my Flame despise, I'll hang me in my Garters; Why then make hast to win the Prize, Among loves foolish Martyrs: Can you see _Delia_ brought so low, And make her no Requitals?

_Delia_ may to the Devil go, _Delia_ may to the Devil, Devil go, to the Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil go for _Strephon_; Stop my Vitals, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop my Vitals.

_A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ John Weldon.

[Music]

Swain thy hopeless Pa.s.sion smother, Perjur'd _Caelia_ loves another; In his Arms I saw her lying, Panting, Kissing, Trembling, Dying: There the Fair deceiver swore, As once she did to you before.

Oh! said you, when She deceives me, When that Constant Creatures leave me; _Isis_ Waters back shall fly, And leave their _Ouzy_ Channels dry: Turn your Waters, leave your Sh.o.r.e, For perjur'd _Caelia_ loves no more.

_A_ SONG _in the Comedy call'd the_ BITER, _Set by Mr._ John Eccles, _and Sung by Mr._ Cook.

[Music]

_Chloe_ blush'd and frown'd and swore, And push'd me rudely from her; I call'd her Faithless, Jilting Wh.o.r.e, To talk to me of Honour: But when I rose and wou'd be gone, She cry'd nay, whither go ye?

Young _Damon_ saw, now we're alone, Do, do, do what you will, do what you will with _Chloe_: Do what you will, what you will, what you will with _Chloe_, Do what you will, what you will, what you will with _Chloe_.

_A_ SONG _in_ Rinaldo _and_ Armida: _Set by Mr._ John Eccles. _Sung by Mr._ Gouge.

[Music]

The Jolly, Jolly Breeze, That comes whistling through the Trees; From all the blissful Regions brings, Perfumes upon its spicy Wings: With its wanton motion curling, Curling, curling, curling the crystal Rills, Which down, down, down, down the Hills, Run, run, run, run, run o'er Golden gravel purling.

_A_ SONG _on the_ Punch Bowl. _To the foregoing Tune._

The Jolly, Jolly Bowl, That does quench my thirsty Soul; When all the mingling Juice is thrown, Perfum'd with fragrant Goar Stone: With it's wanton Toast too, curling, Curling, curling, curling, curling the Nut-brown Riles, Which down, down, down, down by the Gills, Run through ruby Swallows purling.

_The_ PROLOGUE _in the_ Island-Princess, _Set and Sung by Mr._ LEVERIDGE.

[Music]

You've been with dull Prologues here banter'd so long, They signify nothing, or less than a Song; To sing you a Ballad this Tune we thought fit, For Sound has oft nickt you, when Sence could not hit: Then Ladies be kind, and Gentlemen mind, Wit Capers, play Sharpers, loud Bullies, tame Cullies, Sow grumblers, Wench Fumblers give ear ev'ry Man: Mobb'd Sinners in Pinners, kept Foppers, Bench-hoppers, High-Flyers, Pit-Plyers, be still if you can: You're all in d.a.m.nation, you're all in d.a.m.nation for Leading the Van.

Ye Side-Box Gallants, whom the vulgar call Beaus, Admirers of Self, and nice Judges of Cloaths; Who now the War's over cross boldly the Main, Yet ne'er were at Seiges, unless at Campaign: Spare all on the Stage, Love in every Age, Young Tattles, Wild Rattles, Fan-Tearers, Mask-Fleerers, Old Coasters, Love boasters, who set up for Truth: Young Graces, Black Faces, some Faded, some Jaded, Old Mothers, and others, who've yet a Colt's Tooth: See us Act that in Winter, you'd all Act in Youth.

You Gallery Haunters, who love to lye snug, And maunch Apples or Cakes, while some Neighbour you hugg; Ye lofties, Genteels, who above us all sit, And look down with Contempt, on the Mob in the Pit, Here's what you like best, Jigg, Song and the rest, Free Laughers, close Graffers, dry Jokers, old Soakers, Kind Cousins, by Dozens, your Customs don't break: Sly Spouses with Blouses, grave Horners, in Corners, Kind No-wits, save Poets, clap 'till your Hands ake, And tho' the Wits d.a.m.n us, we'll say the Whims take.

_A_ SONG _Set by Mr._ JOHN BARRETT, _and Sung by Mrs._ LINDSEY.

[Music]

_Caelia_ hence with Affectation, Hence with all this careless Air; Hypocrisy is out of Fashion, With the Witty and the Fair: Nature all thy Arts discloses, While the Pleasures she supplies; Paint thy glowing Cheeks with Roses, And inflame thy sparkling Eyes.

Foolish _Caelia_ not to know, Love thy Int'rest and thy Duty; Thou to love alone dost owe, All thy Joy, and all thy Beauty: Mark the tuneful Feather'd kind, At the coming of the Spring; All in happy Pairs are joyn'd, And because they love they Sing.

_A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ CLARK.

[Music]

How often have I curs'd that sable Deceit, For making me wish and admire; And rifle poor _Ovid_ to learn to intreat, When Reason might check my desire: For sagely of late it has been disclos'd, There's nothing, nothing conceal'd uncommon; No Miracles under a Mask repos'd, When knowing _Cynthia's_ a Woman.

Tho' Beauty's great Charms our Sences delude, 'Tis the Centre attracts our Needle; And Love's a Jest when thought to intrude, The design of it to unriddle: A Virgin may show strange coyness in Love, And tell you Chimera's of Honour; But give her her Wish, the Man she approves, No Labour he'll have to win her.

FINIS.