A BACCHANALIAN RANT. HARRY CAREY. Bacchus must now his power resign, I am the only god of wine; It is not fit the wretch should be Who can drink ten times more than he. Make a new world, ye powers divine! Let other mortals vainly wear Let the ambitious toil and think, Let states and empires swim or sink— HOW HARDLY I CONCEALED MY TEARS? ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON. How hardly I conceal'd my tears? But now my joys as wild are grown, I tell it to the bleating flocks, And bless the hollow murmuring rocks Thus you may see with how much joy, RIVALS, A LOVER'S PLAGUE. WILLIAM WALSH. Of all the torments, all the cares, Sylvia, for all the pangs you see How great soe'er your rigours are, {This song is by the Walsh so often mentioned in the correspon. dence of Pope.] AMYNTA'S LIPS. As near a fountain's cooling side, The fair Amynta lay, Her looks increas'd the summer's pride- The roses round blush'd deeper red- Each lily droop'd its little head- Unto this fountain's soft retreat- Drawn by the fragrance of her breath, Her wanton lips he wooed, The happy rogue pursued. Ah! little bee how blest thy fate Thy lot was joy divine, E'en Kings would quit their royal state- [Our old collections of songs contain many versions of the above, in some the lady is called Selinda. The Editor thinks the present copy of the song is most preferable.] WE ALL TO BEAUTY BOW. We all to conquering beauty bow, And, like men gazing on the sun, Soft, as the tender moving sighs, The patriarch to win a wife, Serv'd fourteen years a painful life, Ah! were you to reward such care, AN EXCUSE FOR DRINKING. Upbraid me not, capricious fair, I should not want to drown despair, Love me, my dear, and you shall find, That all my bliss, when Chloe's kind, The god of wine the victory To beauty yields with joy; For Bacchus only drinks like me, TO THE BROOK. To the brook and the willow that heard him complain, Poor Colin went weeping and told them his pain; Sweet stream, he cried, sadly I'll teach thee to flow, And thy waters shall mournfully run with my woe. |