AIR.

HE. Fair and comely is my love,
And softer than the blue-ey'd dove;
Down her neck the wanton locks
Bound like the kids on Gilead's rocks;
Her teeth like flocks in beauty scem,
New shorn, and dropping from the stream;
Her glowing lips by far outvie

The plaited threads of scarlet dye;
Whene'er she speaks the accents wound,
And music floats upon the sound.

RECITATIVE.

SHE. Forbear, O charming swain, forbear! Thy voice enchants my list'ning ear; And while I gaze, my bosom glows, My flutt'ring heart with love o'erflows, The shades of night hang o'er my eyes, And every sense within me dies.

AIR.

O fill with cooling juice the bowl!
Assuage the fever in my soul!
With copious draughts my thirst remove,
And sooth the heart that's sick of love.

PART II

RECITATIVE.

HE. The cheerful Spring begins to day; Arise, my fair-one, come away!

RECITATIVE.

SHE. Sweet music steals along the airHark! -my beloved's voice I hear!

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!

CHORUS.

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

DUET.

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.

RECITATIVE.

HE. How lovely art thou to the sight, For pleasure form'd, and sweet delight! Tall as the palm-tree is thy shape, Thy breasts are like the clust'ring grape.

AIR.

Let me, love, thy bole ascending,
On the swelling clusters feed:
With my grasp the vine-tree bending,
In my close embrace shall bleed.
Stay me with delicious kisses,

From thy honey-dropping mouth; Sweeter than the Summer breezes Blowing from the genial South.

RECITATIVE.

SHE. O that a sister's specious name Conceal'd 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.

AIR.

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!

RECITATIVE.

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.

AIR.

Softly arise, O southern breeze!
And kindly fan the blooming trees;
Upon my spicy garden blow,

That sweets from every part may flow.

CHORUS.

Ye southern breezes, gently blow,
That sweets from every part may flow.

PART IIL

AIR.

Hz. Arise, my fair, the doors unfold, Receive me, shivering with the cold.

RECITATIVE.

SHE. My heart amidst my slumbers wakes, And tells me my beloved speaks.

AIR.

He. Arise, my fair, the doors unfold,
Receive me, shivering with the cold:
The chill-drops hang upon my head,

And night's cold dews my cheeks o'erspread:
Receive me, dropping, to thy breast,
And lull me in thy arms to rest.

RECITATIVE.

SHE. Obedient to thy voice I hie; The willing doors wide open fly.

AIR.

Ah! whither, whither art thou gone?
Where is my lovely wand'rer flown?
Ye blooming virgins, as you rove,
If chance you meet my straying love,
I charge you tell him how I mourn,
And pant, and die for his return.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.

Who is thy love, O charming maid! That from thy arms so late has stray'd? Say what distinguish'd charms adorn, And finish out his radiant form?

AIR.

SHE. 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.

RECITATIVE.

HE. Sweet nymph, whom ruddier charms adora, 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.

RECITATIVE.

SHE. O take me! stamp me on thy breast! Deep let the image be imprest! For Love, like armed Death, is strong, Rudely he drags his slaves along : If once to jealousy he turns, With never-dying rage he burns.

DUET.

Thou soft invader of the soul !
O Love, who shall thy pow'r control!
To quench thy fires whole rivers drain,
Thy burning heat shall still remain.
In vain we trace the globe to try,
If pow'rful gold thy joys can buy:
The treasures of the world will prove
Too poor a bribe to purchase love.

CHORUS.

In vain we trace the globe to try,
If pow'rful gold thy joys can buy:
The treasures of the world will prove
Too poor a bribe to purchase love.

PROLOGUE TO GIL BLAS,

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODWARD, IN THE CHARACTER OF A CRITIC, WITH A CATCALL IN HIS HAND.

ARE you all ready? Here's your music! here! Author, sneak off, we'll tickle you, my dear. The fellow stopp'd me in a hellish fright"Pray sir," says he, "must I be damn'd to-night?" Damn'd surely, friend-Don't hope for our compliance,

Zounds, sir!-a second play's downright defiance. Though once, poor rogue, we pitied your condition, Here's the true recipe-for repetition.

“Well, sir,” says he, "e'en as you please, so then I'll never trouble you with plays again." But harkee, poet!-won't you though? says I. "Pon honour."-Then we'll damn you, let me die. Blowing his catcall.

Sha'n't we, my bucks? Let's take him at his word-
Damn him-or by my soul, he'll write a third.
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!
As if we bloods had bowels for a bard!
Besides, what men of spirit, now-a-days,
Come to give sober judgments of new plays?
"It argues some good-nature to be quiet-"
Good-nature! Ay-but then we lose a riot.
The scribbling fool may beg and make a fuss,
'Tis death to him-What then?-'Tis sport to us.
Don't mind me though-for all my fun and jokes,
The bard may find us bloods good-natur'd folks;
Not crabbed critics-foes to rising merit-
Write but with fire-and we'll applaud with spirit-
Our author aims at no dishonest ends,

He knows no enemies, and boasts some friends;
He takes no methods down your throats to cram it;
So if you like it, save it; if not-damn it.

VOL. XIV.