With light united, day they give, SONG XLI. Young Corydon and Phillis Sat in a lovely grove, Contriving crowns of lilies, And fomething elfe, but what I dare not name. But, as they were a playing, She ogled fo the swain, It fav'd her plainly faying, Let's kifs to eafe our pain, &c. A thousand times he kifs'd her So many beauties viewing, His ardour ftill increas'd; And, greater joys purfuing, He wander'd o'er her breaft, &c. A laft effort fhe trying, His paffion to withstand, Young Corydon grown bolder, The minutes wou'd improve; This is the time, he told her, To fhew how much I love, &c. The nymph feem'd almoft dying,. But But Phillis did recover. Much fooner than the fwain; Thus love his revels keeping, From talk they fell to fleeping, SONG XLII. EE, fee, my Seraphina comes, SEE Look, gods, from your celeftial dome, Then fearch, and fee, if you can find, In all your A nymph or goddefs fo divine, PR SONG XLIII. SHE. Ray now, John, let Jug prevail, Doff thy fword, and take a flail ; Wounds and blows, and fcorching heat, Will abroad be all you'll get. HE. Zounds! you are mad, ye fimple jade, SHE. My fhare will be but small, I fear, When bold dragoons have been pickering there, Mind your spinning,. Mend your linen, Look to your cheese, you, Your pigs and your geefe too. SHE. No, no, I'll ramble out with you. HE. Blood and fire, if you tire With vexations and narrations, Thumping, thumping, thumping, Is the fatal word, Joan. SHE. Do, do, I'm good at thumping too. Come, come, John, let's bufs and be friends,, Thus ftill, thus love's quarrel ends I my tongue fometimes let run, But, alas! I foon have done. SHE. Grow great! And want both drink and meat, And coin, unless the pamper'd French you beat : Ah John! take care, John! Dare And learn more wit. HE. you prate ftill, At this rate fill, And, like vermin, Grudge my preferment? SHE. You'll beg, or get a wooden leg. H E. Nay, if bawling, catterwawling, I'll be gone, and straight aboard. SHE. Do, do, and fo fhall Hob and Sue, SONG XLIV. HE. Ince times are fo bad, I must tell thee, fweet heart, I'm thinking to leave off my plough and my cart, And to the fair city a journey I'll go, To better my fortune as other folks do, Since fome have from ditches, And coarfe leather breeches, Been rais'd to be rulers, And wallow'd in riches, Pray thee, come, come, come, come from thy wheel For if the gipfies don't lie, I fhall be a governor too ere I die. SHE. Ah, Colin! by all thy late doings I find, With forrow and trouble, the pride of thy mind Our Our sheep now at random disorderly run, And now Sunday's jacket goes every day on; H E. To make my fhoes clean, And foot it to court to the king and the queen, Where, fhewing my parts, I preferment fhall win. Fie! 'tis better for us to plough and to spin; H E. Why, then I'll take arms, and follow alarms, And fo lofe a limb by a fhot or a blow, And curfe thyfelf after for leaving the plow. Nice pimping howe'er yields profit for life; That's dangerous too amongst the town-crew : HE. Will nothing prefer me, what think'st of the law? SHE. Oh! while you live, Colin, keep out of that paw. На |