But when bottles are rang'd SONG LXXIX. E virgin powers, defend my heart, YE From faucy love, or nicer art, Which most our fex beguiles. From fighs and vows, and awful fears, From fpeaking filence, and from tears, But if through paffion I grow blind, An heart, whofe flames are feen, tho' pure HY fhou'd a foolish marriage vow, WH Which long ago was made, Oblige us to each other now, When paffion is decay'd? We lov'd, and we lov'd As long as we cou'd, Till love was lov'd out of us both: But our marriage is dead, 'Twas pleasure first made it an oath. If I have pleasures for a friend, And further love in ftore, What wrong has he whofe joys did end, Or that I fhou'd bar him of another; Is to give ourselves pain, SONG LXXXI. Y dear miftrefs has a heart, M's Soft as these kind looks fhe gave me, She's fo wild and apt to wander, She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day afunder. SONG LXXXII. Y'LL fail upon the dog-ftar, I' And then purfue the morning: Il chafe the moon till it be noon, 1 I'll climb the frofty mountain, The ftars pluck from their orbs too, While I mount yon blew celum, P SONG LXXXIII. JAMES. RITHEE, Susan, what doft muse on, You are, I fear, in love, my dear Alas poor thing! SUSAN. Truly, Jamie, I must blame ye, I fear 'twill prove you are in love; JAMES. Nay, my Suey, now I view ye; Well I know your smart, ; When you're alone you figh and groan; SUSAN. Jamie, hold; I dare be bold To fay, thy heart is ftole, JAMEST JAMES. Then, my Sue, tell me who; SUSAN. Jamie, no, if you fhou'd know, JAMES. Why then, my Sue, it is for you, SUSAN. Say you fo, then, Jamie, know, If you thou'd prove untrue, Then must I likewise cry, Alas poor Sue! Quoth he, then join thy hand with mine, I do agree, here 'tis, quoth fhe, W SONG LXXXIV. HEN, lovely Phillis, thou art kind, 'Tis then I think thee fo divine, T'excell the mighty power of wine: But when thou infult'ft, and laughs at my pain, When When pity in thy looks I fee, But when thou art cruel, and heeds not my care, SONG LXXXV. OU that love mirth, attend to my fong, A bonny Scots lad, and an Irish dear-joy; And merrily talking, At laft by meer chance to a wind-mill they came. Haha! crys Sawny, what do ye ca' that? To tell the right name o't I am at a loss. Indeed I believe it'fh fhaint Patrick's crofs. And tartans hang on it, The plaid and the trews our apoftle did wear. Nay, o' my fhoul joy, thou tellefht all lees, And that I'm fhure ifh the fhame that he bought; And he ish a fhaint mush better than ever Made either the covenantfh fholemn or league: For o' my fhalwafhion, He was my relashion, And had a great kindnesh for honefht poor Teague. 06 Where |