Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy Volume VI Part 42

And you my Companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray'd; Whatever I suffer forbear, Forbear to accuse my false Maid, Tho' thro' the wide World we shou'd range, 'Tis in vain from our Fortunes to fly; 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'Tis mine to be Constant and die.

If whilst my hard Fate I sustain, In her Breast any Pity is found; Let her come with the Nymphs of the Plain, And see me laid low in the Ground; The last humble Boon that I crave, Is to shade me with _Cypress_ and _Yew_; And when she looks down on my Grave, Let her own that her Shepherd was true.

Then to her new Love let her go, And deck her in Golden Array; Be finest at every fine Show, And Frolick it all the long Day: Whilst _Collin_ forgotten and gone, No more shall be talk'd of or seen; Unless that beneath the Pale Moon, His Ghost shall glide over the Green.

_The Constant_ Warrior: _Set by Mr._ Ramondon.

Farewel _Chloe_, O farewel, I'll repair to Wars alarms; And in foreign Nations tell, Of your Cruelty and Charms: Come ye briny Billows rowl, And convey me from my Soul, Come ye briny Billows rowl, And convey me from my Soul: Since the cruel Fair, The cause of my Despair, Has forc'd me hence to go, Where stormy Winds do blow; Where raging Seas do toss and mount, With dangers that I can't recount, Forgive me showing thus my Woe; _Where raging Seas do toss_, &c.

When you hear of Deeds in War, Acted by your faithful Swain; Think, oh think, that from afar, 'Twas you conquer'd all were slain: For by calling on your Name, I Conquer'd whereso'er I came; Shou'd my Fate not be, To keep my Body free, From Wounds and Bruises too, Whilst Honour I pursue; 'Twou'd raise my Reputation, My Pain I'd lose in Pa.s.sion, And glory that 'twas done for you.

Shou'd grim Death once a.s.sail me, It cou'd never fright your Slave, Fortune self cou'd never fail me, Only you can make my Grave: My Destiny shou'd grant reprieve, I cou'd not Die, if you said live: Were it to be found, In all the World around, An instance of such Love, As you in me may prove: I'd never ask return, But patiently wou'd burn, Nor more your generous pity move.

O my guardian Angel say, Can such proofs your Pa.s.sion gain; If it can I'll bless the Day, That I venture on the Main: Then with Joy cry Billows rowl, And convey me to my Soul: Return with glory Crown'd, Upon the lowly Ground, Kneel at your Feet a while, And there my Fears beguile: And think my Toyl repaid, If you'd vouchsafe dear Maid, To crown my Labours with a Smile.

_The true Use of the_ BOTTLE.

[Music]

Love, the sweets of Love, are the Joys I most admire, Kind and active Fire, Of a fierce Desire, Indulge my Soul, compleat my Bliss; But th' affected coldness Of _Caelia_ damps my boldness, I must bow, protest and Vow, And swear aloud, I wou'd be Proud, When she with equal Ardour longs to Kiss: Bring a Bowl, then bring a Jolly Bowl, I'll quench fond Love within it; With flowing Cups I'll raise my Soul, And here's to the happy Minute: For flush'd with brisk Wine, When she's panting and warm; And Nature unguarded lets loose her Mind, In the Amorous moment the Gipsie I'll find, Oblige her and take her by Storm.

_A_ SONG _in the_ Farce _call'd the_ Younger _the_ Wiser: _Set by Mr._ DANIEL PURCELL. _Sung by Mr._ LEVERIDGE.

[Music]

How happy's he who weds a Wife, Well practis'd, well practis'd in the _London_ Life; Dull Country Brides a Sense may want, To hide the Favours which they grant.

How happy's he who weds a Wife, We'll practis'd, well practis'd in the _London_ Life; But _London_ Wives Coquet by Rule, Discreetly please the Men they Fool.

How happy's he who weds a Wife, Well practis'd, well practis'd in the _London_ Life.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ RAMONDON. _Sung at the_ Theatre.

[Music]

How Charming _Phillis_ is, how Fair, How Charming _Phillis_ is, how Fair, O that she were as willing, To ease my wounded Heart of Care, And make her Eyes less killing: To ease my wounded Heart of Care, And make her Eyes less killing, To ease my wounded Heart of Care, And make her Eyes less killing, To ease my wounded Heart of Care, And make her Eyes less killing: I sigh, I sigh, I languish now, And Love will not let me rest; I drive about the Park and Bow, Where'er I meet my Dearest.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ BERENCLOW.

Why will _Clemene_, when I gaze, My ravish'd Eyes reprove; And chide 'em from the only Face, That they were made to Love: Was not I born to wear your Chain, I should delight to rove; From your cold Province of Disdain, To some warm Land of Love.

But shou'd a gentle Nymph when try'd, To me prove well inclin'd; My destin'd Heart must yet reside, With you the most unkind; So destin'd Exiles as they roam, While kindly us'd elsewhere; Still languish after Native home, Tho' Death, Death is threatned there.

FINIS.