A SONG by a Mad Lady in Don Quixote. Set by Mr. John Eccles.
Burn, I burn, I burn, I burn, I burn,
I burn, I burn, I burn, I burn, I burn,
My Brain consumes to Ashes,
Each Eye-ball too like Lightning flashes,
Like Lightning flashes;
Within my Breast there glows a solid Fire,
Which in a thousand, thousand Ages can't expire.
Blow the Winds, great Ruler blow,
Bring the Po and the Ganges hither,
'Tis sultry, sultry, sultry Weather;
Pour 'em all on my Soul, it will hiss,
It will hiss like a Coal,
But never, never be the cooler.
'Twas pride, hot as Hell, that first made me rebel,
From Love's awful Throne a curst Angel I fell;
And mourn now the Fate,
Which my self did create,
Fool, Fool, that consider'd not when I was well;
And mourn now the Fate,
Which my self did create,
Fool, Fool, that consider'd not when I was well.
Adieu, adieu transporting Joys,
Adieu, adieu transporting Joys;
Off, off, off, ye vain fantastick Toys,
Off, off ye vain fantastick Toys,
That drep'd this Face and Body to allure,
Bring, bring me Daggers,
Poyson, Fire, Fire, Daggers, Poyson, Fire,
For Scorn is turn'd into Desire;
All Hell, all Hell feels not the Rage,
Which I, poor I, which I, poor I endure.
Remarks for the French KING.
A SONG Occasioned by the taking of Lisle and that Glorious Campaign.
Rand Lewis let pride be abated,
Thy Marshals have all had a foyle;
Boufflers like Tallard is ill Fated,
And Vendosme remembers the Dyle.
Thy hand is quite out at Invasions,
And spite of thy Fortifications,
Brave Eugene has taken Lisle:
Tho' one day Burgundy,
Was merry with Berry,
And bragg'd the Queens Troops he would scourge,
Make Britains, and great ones,
This Summer run from her,
And own Chevalier de St. George;
Tho' the Crump too that Season,
Got Bruges and Ghent by Treason,
We'll make him e'er long disgorge.
A Pox of your race of high Flyers,
That late on the Battlements stood;
Who shew'd to get out of the Bryers,
What Princes you had of the Blood;
And welfare the Gallant Hanover,
Who late his high Birth to discover;
Charg'd as a young Hero shou'd :
'Tis said too, who fled too,
Were snapt so, and cropt so,
They never could face us again;
That cunning, or running,
Won't better the matter,
They shun mighty Marlborough in vain,
And Monsieur t'alarm ye,
If once more he Hockstets your Army,
We'll give ye no thanks for Spain.
Thy Troops can do nothing but rattle,
Brave Webb the discovery begun ;
Who prov'd at the Wynendale Battle,
How fast thy Mob Army could run :
His valour shall flourish in Story,
And thus while he adds to our Glory,
His own will out-Post the Sun.
Forgetting that beating,
A hearty bold party,
Late Marcht towards Brussels fair Town,
There bouncing and clattring,
With Cannon for battring,
The Electoral Hotspur sate down;
But when some time after,
Our Generals cross'd o're the water,
Away the wild Goose was flown.
Bavaria this shameful disaster,
Not half yet repays thy past ill,
For first being base to thy Master,
And afterwards false to King Will;
And if 'tis thy simple Opinion,
Le Roy can restore thy Dominion,
Parblew thou art frantick still:
Pursuing his Ruin,
We're Marching and Charging,
Resolv'd on a winter's Campaign,
Cold Snowing, and Blowing,
In Terrour are shewing,
Great Marlborough and Glorious Eugene.
We'll Storm too like Thunder,
Vile Towns that are Fated for Plunder,
And take 'em L'Espee a la main.
Sung by Mr. Pack in the OPERA call'd the Kingdom of the Birds, to the Dance between the High and Low Flyers.
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