So have I feen with aspect bright,
And taudry pride, a tulip fwell,
Blooming and beauteous to the fight,
Dull and infipid to the smell.

SONG LXVI.

Trifling fong ye fhall hear,

A Begun with a trifle and ended;

All trifling people draw near,
And I fhall be nobly attended.

Were it not for trifles a few,

That lately came into the play,
The men would want fomething to do,
The women viant fomething to say.

What makes men trifle in dreffing?
Because the ladies, they know,
Admire, by often careffing

That eminent trifle, a beau.

When the lover his moments has trifled,
The trifle of trifles to gain,

No fooner the virgin is rifled,
Bu a trifle fhall part them again.

What mortal wou'd ever be able,

At Whyte's half a moment to fit ? Or who is't cou'd bear a tea-table, Without talking trifles for wit?

The court is from trifles fecure,

Gold keys are no trifles we see ;
White rods are no trifles I'm fure,
Whatever their bearers may be

But if you will go to the place,
Where trifles abundantly breed ;
The levee will fhew you, his Grace
Makes promises trifles indeed!

A coach with fix footmen behind,

I count neither trifle nor fin;
But, ye gods! how oft do we find
A fcandalous trifle within ?

A flafk of Champaign people think it
A trifle, or fomething as bad;
But if you'll contrive how to drink it,
You'll find it no trifle by Gad.

A parfon's a trifle at fea,

A widow's a trifle in forrow, A peace is a trifle to-day,

To break it a trifle to-morrow.

endeavour ;

A black coat a trifle may cloak,
Or to hide it the red may
But if once the army is broke,

We shall have more trifles than ever.

The ftage is a trifle, they fay,

The reafon pray carry along ; Because that at every new play,

The house they with trifles fo throng.

'But with people's malice to trifle, And to fet us all on a foot; The author of this is a trifle,

And his fong is a trifle to boot.

F

SONG LXVII.

Rom grave leffons and refraint,

I'm flole out to revel here;

Yet I tremble and I faint,
In the middle of the fair.

Oh! would fortune in my way

Throw a lover kind and gay ; Now's the time he foon might move A young heart unus'd to love.

Shall

SONG LXVIII.

Women and Wine.

Ome fay women are like fea,

Some the waves, and fome the rocks,

Some the rofe that foon decays,

Some the weather, fome the cocks ;
But if you'll give me leave to tell,
There's nothing can be compar'd so well,
As wine, wine, women and wine,

They run in a parallel.

Women are witches when they will,
So is wine, fo is wine,

They make the statesman lose his skill,
The foldier, lawyer, and divine;
They put a gigg in the graveft fcull,
And fend their wits to gather wool;
'Tis wine, wine, women and wine,

They run in a parallel.

What is't that makes your face fo pale,
What is't that makes your looks divine,
What makes your courage rife and fall?
Is it not women, is it not wine?
Whence proceed th' inflaming dofes,
That fet fire to your noses?
From wine, wine, women and wine,
They run in a parallel.

SONG

SONG LXIX.

Ou'd you chufe a wife,
For a happy life?

Leave the court, and the country take,
Where Dolly and Sue,
Young Molly and Prue,
Follow Roger and John,
Whilft harvest

goes on, And merrily merrily rake.

Leave the London dames
(Be it spoke to their fhames)
To lie in their beds till noon,
Then get up and stretch,
And paint too and patch,
Some widgeon to catch,
Then look at their watch,

And wonder they rofe up fo foon.

Then coffee and tea,

Both green and bohea,
Are ferv'd to their tables in plate,
Where tattles do run,

As fwift as the fun,

Of what they have won,

And who is undone,

By their gaming and fitting up late.

The lafs give me here,
Tho' brown as my beer,

That knows how to govern her house,
That can milk her cow,

Or farrow her fow,

Make butter and cheese,
Or gather green peafe,

And values fine cloaths not a foufe.

This is the girl
Worth rubies and pearl;

A wife that will make a man rich;

We gentlemen need

No quality breed

།

To

To fquander away What taxes wou'd pay; We care not in faith for fuch.

SONG

LXX.

YE

ES I could love, if I could find
A mistress fitted to my mind,
Whom neither gold nor pride could move,
To change her virtue or her love:

Loves to go neat, not to go fine,
Loves for myself, and not for mine;
Not city-proud, nor nice and coy,
But full of love, and full of joy :

Not childish young, nor beldame old,
Nor fiery hot, nor icy cold,
Not gravely wife to rule the ftate,
Not foolish to be pointed at:

Not worldly rich, nor bafely poor,
Nor chafte, nor a reputed whore:
If fuch an one you can discover,
Pray, Sir, intitle me her lover.

B

Lefs'd as th' immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly fits by thee, And hears and fees thee all the while, Softly speak and sweetly smile.

'Twas this bereav'd my foul of rest,
And rais'd fuch tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd in transport toft,
My breath was gone, my voice was loft.

My bofom glow'd; the fubtile flame
Ran quick thro' all
my vital frame ;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung,