MUSIDORA:

A New SONG. The Words made to a pretty Scotch Ayre.

Pening Budds began to shew

The Beauty of their vernal Treasure,

Spring had routed Frost and Snow,
Obeying Flora's Pleasure:

Damon by a River's side,

Whose silver Streams did gently glide,
Compar'd his Blessings to the Tide,
That flow'd beyond all Measure.

Musidora Fair and Young

With panting Rapture still alarms me,
Motion, Shape, or Charming Tongue,
All raise a Flame that warms me :
Eyes excelling Titan's Ray;

But when she's most divinely gay,
And kindly designs to sing and play,
Oh Venus! how she charms me.

Sylvia, dearest of all Dears,

Charm'd by Nature to content ye,
In her Face the Figures wears

Of Pleasure, Joy, and Plenty :
Kindling Hopes, and Doubts, and Fears,
The Young inchants, the Old she chears,
So well she makes dull seventy Years,
Grow brisk as Five and Twenty.

On

On the Warwickshire Peers. A New Sonnet.
The Words made to a pretty Tune.

R

Ide all England o'er,

East and West, South or Nore,

And try every British Peer;
The Warwickshire Lords
Will excel what affords,
Any other remaining Shire.
Peer Den-gh is kind,
And a hearty true Friend,
Lord Cr- -n the same we know,
He'll still hold ye to't,

From the Dram to the Flute,
And ne'er give ye a Hint to go.

North- -ton of Fame

Should have first here a Name, Whose Deserts great Applause have gain'd, His brave Loyal Race,

To their Country a Grace,

In Old Times the Crown's Right maintain'd:
Lord Brook by his Choice

Would make Warwick rejoyce,
Would his Spleen let him Harbour there,
But since that plagues his Head,
For his Cure let him read

*Le Malade Imaginaire.

Lord Willoughby's Old,

But couragious and bold,

For the Rights of the Church and Crown,
Who though ninety Odd,
Was freezing his Blood,

For the Cause would rise post to Town:

But, oh, to its Shame,

There is one without Name,

*A Play of Molieres.

Tho'

Tho' the French have it plain, un fou,
I say nought of his Face,
But his stigmatiz'd Dress,
You'll find is a Coventry Blue.

And now this is past,

To dear Stonely I hast,
That its Patron my Praise may share,
Spite do what it can,

He that looks like a Man,
May still find a Welcome there :
The Queen still goes round,
And the Warriours renown'd,
The Church too, and all its Sons,
Who cry, let's go there,

Some good News we shall hear, Lord Thomas has fir'd his Guns.

Lord Digby of late

Is so wondrous sedate,
That 'tis counted a kind of Crime,
Condemn'd to his house,
Without sometimes a Loose,

He'd be sainted before his time;
A regular Life,

Free from Faction and Strife,
Gains Applause still amongst the Wise;
But who shuns all Converse,

Lives as 'twere in a Hearse,

And is dead now, before he dies.

The

The Brisk COMPANION.

Reflecting on the Party Humours and Discourse of WHIGG and TORY. A New SONG; Written in the Great Snow. The Words made to a pretty New Minuet.

Low the flowry Rain,

FL

That blanches round the Plain,
Filling the Hills and the Dales so fast,
Snow will soon be gone;

Then, then the vernal Sun
Brightly will right ye

From Troubles past,

When his Glory does restore me,
Wine his Creature,

Charms my Nature,

Drink, drink then to the Wise and Brave;
Torys raise your little King,

Whiggs, let all the Tories swing,

I, a Club more brisk will have.

Rot 'em, crys the Whigg,
Steeple Rogues grow so big,
To their New Perkin they roar a Song;
Oh, says High-Church Brood,

We can't be understood,

They take a King that can't speak our Tongue;

This a Canter,

This a Ranter;

One for true Kings,

One for New Kings;

Stark Mad, they often fall to Blows,
Whilst our jolly Beaus esprits
Drink, o're Wit and Harmony,
Hang the Sect can be our Foes.

Love and GRATITUDE: Or, The Paralell; A Lyrical ODE, taken from a Chapter in the famous Italian Boccace.

N Old Italian Tales we read

IN

A Youth, by Riot, and fond Love undone, Had yet a Faulcon left of famous Breed,

His sole Companion in his fatal Need,

And chief Diversion when he left the Town.

The Saint that did his Soul possess,
Touch'd with a generous Sense of his Distress,
Made him a Visit at his poor Retreat,
Whom his Heart nobly feasted, but alas,
His empty Purse could get;

Nothing was good enough for her to eat:

'Till rack'd with shame, and a long fruitless Search;
He, more to make his perfect Love appear,
His darling Hawk snatch'd from the Pearch,
And dress'd it for his Dear;

Which generous Act did so entirely gain her,
She gave him all her Love and Wealth,
And nobly paid her Entertainer.

PARALELL.

So when my Love, with Fate at Strife,
In hope was lost to gain the Fair,
And Nature's darling Hawk, my Life,
Was doom'd a Feast for sad Despair,
Divine Olympia chang'd the sad Decree,
And with infallible Divinity,

Gave a new Being to my Soul and me.

The