A SONG in my Comedy, call'd the Bath, or the Western Lass. Set by Mr. Jeremy Clark. Sung by Mrs. Lucas.

6

4

L

Ord! what's come to my Mother,
That every Day more than other,
My true Age she would smother,

And says I'm not in my Teens;
Tho' my Sampler I've sown too,
My Bib and my Apron out-grown too,
Baby quite away thrown too,

I wonder what 'tis she means;
When our John does squeeze my Hand,
And calls me sugar sweet,

My Breath almost fails me,

I know not what ails me,

My Heart does so heave and so beat.

I have heard of Desires,

From Girls that have just been of my Years,

Love compar'd to sweet Bryers,

That hurts, and yet does please :

Is Love finer than Money,

Or can it be sweeter than Honey,
I'm poor Girl such a Toney,

Evads that I cannot guess,

But I'm sure I'll watch more near,
There's something that Truth will shew,
For if Love be a Blessing,

To please beyond Kissing,

Our Jane and our Butler does know.

A

A SONG in praise of Soldiery, sung in Don Quixote, and set to Musick by Mr. Henry Purcell, which is compos'd in his Orpheus Britannicus.

Ing, sing all ye Muses, your Lutes strike around, When a Souldier's the Story, what Tongue can want Sound?

Who Danger disdains,

Wounds, Bruises, and Pains,

And the Honour of Fighting is all that he gains;
Rich Profit comes easy in Cities of Store,
But the Gold is earn'd hard where the Cannons do rore;
Yet see how they run

At the storming a Town,

Thro' Blood, and thro' Fire, to take the Half-moon ; They scale the high Wall,

Whence they see others fall,

Their Heart's precious darling, bright Glory pursuing,
Tho' Death's under foot, and the Mine is just blowing;
It springs, up they fly,
Yet more will supply,

As Bridegrooms to marry, they hasten to die,
'Till Fate claps her Wings,

And the glad Tydings brings,

Of the Breach being enter'd, and then they're all Kings;
Then happy's she, whose Face

Can win the Soldier's Grace,
They range about in State

Like Gods, disposing Fate.
No Luxury in Peace,

Nor Pleasure in Excess,

Can parallel the Joys the Martial Heroes crown, When flush'd with Rage, and forc'd by Want, they storm a wealthy Town.

The

The PEROQUETTE.

An ODE; occasion'd by the seeing a very beautiful one, belonging to the Right Honourable the Earl of Leicester; with a small Remark upon his Lordship's fine Seat at Penshurst.

W

ELL mayst thou prate with mirthful Cheer,
And pick thy plumy green,

Who in delightful Penshurst here,

Art seated like a Queen.

Thou call'st upon a Widow oft,

Tho' few of them are known;

With Look so sweet, and Touch so soft,
Dear Creature, as thy own.

Thus too in Groves, and Gardens fair,
Of Old, the Sylvan Gods,
Perfum'd with Breeze of fragrant Air,
Contriv'd Divine Abodes.

Others, sic siti,* may express,
Possess'd with Fancy vain,

Thou, only in thy Bower of Bliss,
That Phrase canst well maintain.

* Sic siti lætantur Lares.

A

A SONG, occasion'd by the speedy Addition of two Million, made to the Bank of Great Britain. Sung in the Modern Prophets.