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He. Who quits the lily's fleecy white, To fix on meaner flow'rs the sight? Of leares the rose's stem untorn, To crop the blossom from the thorn? Cnrival'd thus thy beauties are; So shines my love among the fair.

RECITATIVE. ShE. Sweet music steals along the air Hark!

-my beloved's voice I hear!


Balmy sweetness, ever flowing,

From her dropping lips distils; Flowers on her cheeks are blowing,

And her voice with music thrills. Zephyrs o'er the spices flying,

Wafting sweets from every tree, Sick’ning sense with odours cloying, Breathe not half so sweet as she.

RECITATIVE. Sue. Let not my prince his slave despise, Ot pass me with unheedling eyes. Because the Sun's discolouring rays Have chas'd ihe lily from my face, My envious sisters saw my bloom, And drove me from my mother's home; ['nsheiter'd all the scorching day They made me in their vineyard stay.

AIR. He. Arise, my fair, and come away, The cheerful Spring begins to day: Bleak Winter's gone with all his train Of chilling frosts, and dropping rain. Amidst the verdure of the mead The primrose lifts her velvet head: The warbling birds, the woods among, Salute the season with a song: The cooing turtle in the grove Renews his tender tale of love: The vines their infant tendrils shoot: The fig-tree bends with early fruit: All welcome in the genial ray: Arise, my fair, and come away!


All welcome in the genial ray, Arise, O fair one, come away!



Ah simple me! my own, more dear,
My own, alas! was not my care :
larading Love the fences broke,
And tore the clusters from the stock,
With eager grasp the fruit destroy'd,
Nor rested, till the ravage cloy'd.

Together let us range the fields,

Impearled with the morning dew; Or view the fruits the vineyard yields,

Or the apple's clust'ring bough: There in close-embower'd shades.

Impervious to the noon-tide ray, By tinkling rills, on rosy beds, We'll love the sultry hours away.

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She. O that a sister's specious name Conceald from prying eyes my flame! Uncensur'd then I'd own my love, And chastest virgins should approve: Then fearless to my mother's bed My seeming brother would I lead : Soft transports should the hours employ, And the deceit should crown the joy.


Sue. On his face the vernal rose, Blended with the lily, glows; His locks are as the raven black, In ringlets waving down his back; His eyes with milder beauties beam, Than billing doves beside the stream; His youthful cheeks are beds of flow'rs, Enripen'd by refreshing show'rs; His lips are of the rose's hue, Dropping with a fragrant dew; Tall as the cedar he appears, And as erect his form he bears. This, O ye virgins, is the swain, Whose absence causes all my pain.

Soft! I adjure you, by the fawns
That bound across the flow'ry lawns,
Ye virgins, that ye lightly move,
Nor with your whispers wake my love!



HE. My fair's a garden of delight, Enclos'd and hid from vulgar sight; Where streams from bubbling fountains stray, And roses deck the verdant way.


He. Sweet nymph, whom ruddier charms adoni, Than open with the rosy morn; Fair as the Moon's unclouded light, And as the Sun in splendour bright; Thy beauties dazzle from a-far, Like glitt'ring arms that gild the war.

Softly arise, O southern breeze!
And kindly fan the blooming trees;
Upon my spicy garden blow,
That sweets from every part may flow.


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Sha’n't we, my bucks? Let's take him at his wordPROLOGUE TO GIL BLAS,

Damn him-or by my soul, he'll write a third. SPOKEN BY MR. WOODWARD, IN THE CHARACTER OF A CRI

The man wants money, I suppose—but mind ye

Tell him you've left your charity behind ye.

A pretty plea, his wants, to our regard !
Are you all ready? Here's your music! here!! As if we bloods had bowels for a bard !
Author, sneak off, we'll tickle you, my dear. Besides, what men of spirit, now-a-days,
The fellow stopp'd me in a hellish fright-

Come to give sober judgments of new plays ? "Pray sir,” says he, “must I be damn'd to-night?" “ It argues some good-nature to be qniet" Damn'd! surely, friend-Don't hope for our com- Good-nature! Ay - but then we lose a riot. pliance,

The scribbling fool may beg and make a fuss, Zounds, sir!-a second play's downright defiance. 'Tis death to him - What then?—'Tis sport to us. Though once, poor rogue, we pitied your condition, Don't mind me though—for all my fun and jokes, Here's the true recipe-for repetition.

The bard may find us bloods good-natur'd folks ; “Well, sir," says he, “ e'en as you please, so then Not crabbed critics—foes to rising merit-I'll never trouble you with plays again."

Write but with fire-and we'll applaud with spiritBut barkee, poet!-won't you though? says J. Our author aims at no dishonest ends, “ 'Pon honour.”—Then we'll damn you, let me die. He knows no enemies, and boasts some friends;

He takes no methods down your throats to cram it; Blowing his catcall.

So if you like it, save it; if not damn ita







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