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Each gloried in their wanton part,

To make a lover, he
Employ'd the utmost of his art,

To make a Beauty, she.
Though now I slowly bend to love

Uncertain of my fate,
If your fair self my chains approve,

I shall my freedom hate.
Lovers, like dying men, may

At first disorder'd be,
Since none alive can truly tell

What Fortune they must see.


[From " the Mulberry Garden, a Comedy written by the Honourable Sir Charles Sidley,” 4to. 1668. This Song is commonly printed as the prodaction of “ the Right Honourable Duncan Forbes, Lord President of the Court of Session, and composed in 1710." Motherwell's Ancient Minstrelsy, p. 65; and another Editor adds that these “tender and pathetic stanzas were addressed to Miss Mary Rose, the elegant accomplished daughter of Hugh Rose, Esq. of Kilrarock, whom he afterwards married !" Ritson commences his Collection of English Songs with Sedley's verses, both Ritson and Park were ignorant of their Author, and Mr. Chambers, in his Scotish Songs, starts with it as a genuine production of old Scotland! In Johnson's Musical Museum it is directed to be sung to the tune of Gilderoy. The two last verses are not in the other versions. Forbes was born in 1685, seventeen years after the appearance of Sedley's comedy.)



Not, Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the rest;
For I would change each hour like them,

Were not my heart at rest.

But I am tied to very thee

By every thought I have : Thy face I only care to see,

Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is ador'd,

In thy dear self I find;
For the whole sex can but afford

The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek farther store,

And still make love anew? When change itself can give no more,

'Tis easy to be true!

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Thyrsis, unjustly you complain,

And tax my tender heart
With want of pity for your pain,

Or sense of your desert.
By secret and mysterious springs,

Alas ! our passions move ;
We women are fantastic things,

That like before we love.
You may be handsome and have wit,

Be secret and well bred,
The person loved must be as fit,

He only can succeed.

Some die, yet never are believed ;

Others we trust too soon,
Helping ourselves to be deceived,

And proved to be undone.


Come, Chloris, hie we to the bower,

To sport us ere the day be done! Such is thy power that every flower

Will ope to thee as to the sun. And if a flower but chance to die 'Thou canst revive it with thine eye, With my sighs blast or mine eyes rain, And with thy breath make sweet again. The wanton suckling, and the vine, Will strive for th'. bonour, who first may

arms encircle thine, To keep the burning sun away.

With their


(From "The Academy of Compliments," 1671.)



Born 1648-Died 1680.

I cannot change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn : Since that poor swain who sighs for you For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no, your heart to move,

A surer way I'll try :
And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on and die.

When killed with grief, Amyntas lies ;

And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall :
That welcome hour that ends this smart,

Will then begin your pain ;
For such a faithful tender heart

Can never break in vain.

[The Songs of the celebrated Lord Rochester, are his only writings free from indecency. Horace Walpole happily characterised his verse as having “much more obscenity than wit, more wit than poetry, more poetry than politeness."]



My Goddess Lydia, heavenly fair,
As lilies sweet, as soft as air ;
Let loose thy tresses, spread thy charıns,
And to my love give fresh alarms.
O let me gaze on those bright eyes,
Though sacred lightning from them flies :
Show me that soft, that modest grace,
Which paints with charming red thy face.

Give me ambrosia in a kiss,
That I may rival Jove in bliss ;
That I may mix my soul with thine,
And make the pleasure all divine.
O hide thy bosom's killing white,
(The milky way is not so bright)
Lest you my ravish'd soul oppress,
With beauty's pomp and sweet excess.
Why draws't thou from the purple flood
Of my kind heart the vital blood ?
Thou art all over endless charms;
0! take me, dying, to thy arms.



Vulcan, contrive me such a cup

As Nestor us'd of old;
Show all thy skill to trim it up,

Damask it round with gold.
Make it so large, that, fill?d with sack

Up to the swelling brim,
Vast toasts in the delicious lake,

Like ships at sea, may swim.
Engrave not battle on his cheek,

With war I've nought to do ;
I'm none of those that took Maestrich,

Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

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