The sun first rising in the morn, As does my lovely Peggy: Appears my lovely Peggy. When Zephyr on the violet blows, Or breathes upon the damask rose, He does not half the sweets disclose That does my lovely Peggy. I stole a kiss the other day, And, trust me, nought but truth I The fragrance of the blooming May Is not so sweet as Peggy. Were she array'd in rustic weed, With her the bleating flocks I'd feed, And pipe upon the oaten reed, say, To please my lovely Peggy: While bees from flow'r to flow'r shall rove, So long shall I love Peggy: 66 $73. Song. The Miller's Wedding. GARRICK, LEAVE, neighbours, your work, and to sport and to play; Let the tabor strike up, and the village be gay: No day through the year shall more cheerful be seen; For Ralph of the Mill inarries Sue of the Green. CHORUS. I love Sue, and Sue loves me, Who'll be so happy, so happy as we? Let lords and fine folks, who for wealth take a bride, Be married to-day, and to-morrow be cloy'd: My body is stout, and my heart is as sound; And my love, like my courage, will never give ground. Chorus-I love Sue, &c. Let ladies of fashion the best jointures wed, And prudently take the best bidders to bed: Such signing and sealing's no part of our bliss; We settle our hearts, and we seal with a kiss. Chorus I love Sue, &c. Though Ralph is not courtly, nor none of your beaux, Nor bounces, nor flatters, nor wears your fine clothes, In nothing he'll follow the folks of high life, Nor e'er turn his back on his friend or his wife. Chorus I love Sue, &c. While thus I am able to work at íny mill, While thus thou art kind, and thy tongue but lies still, Our joys shall continue and ever be new, And none be so happy as Ralph and his Sue. Chorus--I love Sue, &c. $74. Sung in the Winter's Tale. GARRICK. COME, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear; In your holiday-suits with your lasses appear: The happiest of folk are the guileless and free; And who are so guileless, so happy, as we? We harbor no passions by luxury taught, We practise no arts with hypocrisy fraught; What we think in our hearts you may read in our eyes; For, knowing no falsehood, we need no disguise. By mode and caprice are the city dames led, But we as the children of Nature are bred; By her hand alone we are painted and dress'd; For the roses will bloom when there's peace in the breast. That giant, ambition, we never can dread; Our roofs are too low for so lofty a head: Content and sweet cheerfulness open our door, They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor. When love has possest us, that love we reveal ; Like the flocks that we feed are the passions we feel; So harmless and simple we sport and we play, And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray. $75. Song. GARRICK. Ye fair married dames, who so often deplore That a lover once blest is a lover no more; Attend to my counsel, nor blush to be taught That prudence must cherish what beauty has caught. The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of THRICE happy the nation that Shakspeare has charm'd! More happy the bosoms his genius has warm'd! Ye children of nature, of fashion, and whim, He painted you all, all join to praise him. Chorus. Come away! come away! His genius calls-you must obey. From highest to lowest, from old to the young, All states and conditions by him have been sung; All passions and humors were rais'd by his pen; He could soar with the eagle, and sink with the wren. Chorus. Come away, &c. To praise him ye Fairies and Genii repait, His genius calls-you must obey. $78. Song in the Country Girl. GARRICK. And it comes to my heart with a twang, twang, I am rock to the handsome and pretty, The way to my heart's through my brain. To return them their darts with a twang, twang, To return them their darts with a twang. § 79. Air in Cymon. GARRICK. Then he mop'd and he pin'd, § 80. Air in Cymon. GARRICK. YET a while, sweet sleep, deceive me, Fold me in thy downy arms; Let not care awake to grieve me, Lull it with thy potent charms. I, a turtle doom'd to stray, Quitting young the parent's nest, Find each bird a bird of prey; Sorrow knows not where to rest! § 81. Shakspeare's Mulberry Tree. GARRICK. BEHOLD this fair goblet! 'twas carv'd from the tree, Which, O my sweet Shakspeare, was planted by thee! As a relic I kiss it, and bow at thy shrine, And thou like him immortal shalt be. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. The oak is held royal, is Britain's great boast, Preserv'd once our king, and will always our coast; [that fight, But of fir we make ships, we have thousands While one, only one, like our Shakspeare can write. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. Let Venus delight in her gay myrtle bowers, Pomona in fruit-trees, and Flora in flowers; With the sweetest of flowers, and fairest of fruit. The garden of Shakspeare all fancies will suit, All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. With learning and knowledge the well-letter'd [church; Supplies law and physic, and grace for the But law and the gospel in Shakspeare we find, And he gives the best physic for body and mind. birch All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree, From him and his merits this takes its degree; Let Phoebus and Bacchus their glories resign, Our tree shall surpass both the laurel and vine. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. The genius of Shakspeare outshines the bright day, More rapture than wine to the heart can convey; It was a friar of orders grey Walk'd forth to tell his beads; And he met with a lady fair, Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I thee tell to me, If ever, at yon holy shrine, My true-love thou didst see. And how should I know your true-love But chiefly by his face and mien, His flaxen locks, that sweetly curl'd, And 'plaining of her pride. Here bore him, bare-faced on his bier, And art thou dead, thou gentle youth? O weep not, lady, weep not so! Some ghostly comfort seek: My sorrow now reprove; Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain: Our joys as winged dreams do fly, O say not so, thou holy friar! Will he ne'er come again? Ah, no! he is dead, and laid in his grave, For ever to remain. His cheek was redder than the rose, Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, To one thing constant never. Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee, say not so! My love he had the truest heart; O he was ever true! And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth? But first upon my true-love's grave Yet stay, fair lady, stay a while turf See, through the hawthorn blows the wind, O stay me not, thou holy friar, ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. O Susan, Susan, lovely dear! Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be If to fair India's coast we sail, away, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; § 84. Song. ROWE. s on a summer's day, And as she passed by, With a scornful glance of her eye, To the sweetest shepherd's reed? But with hopes and fears Tune thy pipe once again, Is written in my heart, Than the nymphs of our green, My own dear maid, Be content with this shade, § 85. Song. PRIOR. ALEXIS shunn'd his fellow-swains, Heaven shield us all from Cupid's bow! The nymphs and shepherds round him came, He gave The fatal cause all kindly seek; And ask'd the reason of his woe; She fear'd too much to know. The shepherd rais'd his mournful head: Yet I love his parents, since they're his, altho' they've ruin'd me, And I love my love, because I know my love loves me. O! should it please the pitying pow'rs to call me to the sky, I'd claim a guardian angel's charge, around my love to fly; To guard him from all dangers, how happy should I be ! For I love my love, because I know my love loves me. When in the silence of the grove From the hard rock or oozy beach, No fields that wave with golden grain, A woman's venal heart to gain; Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold: What wealth, what riches, would suffice? The lustre of thy rival eyes; Can with thy brighter self compare, Than gems or ore a heart sincere: $88. Song, WHAT beauties does Flora disclose! Nor all the gay flow'rs of the field, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, Let us see how the primroses spring; While happily she lies asleep? 'Tis she does the virgins excel, No beauty with her can compare; Love's graces all round her do dwell, She's farrest where thousands are fair. |