Quiet harmless Country Pleasure, Shall at home engross my Leisure; Farewel _London_, I'll repair, To my Native Country Air: I leave all thy Pleasures behind me, But at home my Wife will find me; Oh the G.o.ds! 'tis ten times worse, _London_ is a milder Curse.

_The Duke of_ ORMOND'S _March._

_Set by Mr._ CHURCH.

[Music]

Ye brave Boys and Tars, That design for the Wars, Remember the Action at _Vigo_; And where ORMOND Commands, Let us all joyn our Hands, _And where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

Let Conquest and Fame, The Honour proclaim, Great ORMOND has gotten at _Vigo_; Let the Trumpets now sound, And the Ecchoes around, _Where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

Let the Glories be Sung, Which the ORMONDS have won, Long before this great Action at _Vigo_; They're so Loyal and Just, And so true to their Trust, _That where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

Old Records of Fame, Of the ORMONDS great Name, Their Actions, like these were of _Vigo_; And since this Prince exceeds, In his Fore-Father's Deeds, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

'Tis the Praise of our Crown, That such Men of Renown, Shou'd lead on the Van, as at _Vigo_; Where such Lives and Estates Are expos'd for our sakes, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

'Twas the whole Nation's Voice, And we all did rejoyce, When we heard he Commanded for _Vigo_; To ANNA so True, All her Foes to pursue, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

'Tis the Voice of the Town, And our Zeal for the Crown, To serve ORMOND to _France_, _Spain_, or _Vigo_; So n.o.ble and brave, Both to Conquer and save, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

To the Soldiers so kind, And so humbly inclin'd, To wave his Applause gain'd at _Vigo_; Yet so kind and so true, He gave all Men their due, _Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

We justly do own, All the Honour that's won, In _Flanders_, as well as at _Vigo_; But our Subject and Theme, Is of ORMOND's great Name, _And where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

Then take off the Bowl, To that Generous Soul, That Commanded so bravely at _Vigo_; And may ANNA approve, Of our Duty and Love, _And where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

_A Cure for Melancholy._

[Music]

Are you grown so Melancholy, That you think on nought but Folly; Are you sad, Are you Mad, Are you worse; Do you think, Want of c.h.i.n.k Is a Curse: Do you wish for to have, Longer Life, or a Grave, _Thus would I Cure ye_.

First I would have a Bag of Gold, That should ten Thousand Pieces hold, And all that, In thy Hat, Would I pour; For to spend, On thy Friend, Or thy Wh.o.r.e: For to cast away at Dice, Or to shift you of your Lice, _Thus would I Cure ye_.

Next I would have a soft Bed made, Wherein a Virgin should be laid; That would Play, Any way You'll devise; That would stick Like a Tick, To your Thighs, That would bill like a Dove, Lye beneath or above, _Thus would I Cure ye_.

Next that same Bowl, where _Jove_ Divine, Drank _Nectar_ in, I'd fill with Wine; That whereas, You should pause, You should quaff; Like a _Greek_, Till your Cheek, To _Ceres_ and to _Venus_, To _Bacchus_ and _Silenus_, _Thus would I Cure ye_.

Last of all there should appear, Seven Eunuchs sphere-like Singing here, In the Praise, Of those Ways, Of delights; _Venus_ can, Use with Man, In the Night; When he strives to adorn, _Vulcan's_ Head with a HORN, _Thus would I Cure ye_.

But if not Gold, nor Woman can, Nor Wine, nor Songs, make merry then; Let the Batt, Be thy Mate, And the Owl; Let a Pain, In thy Brain, Make thee Howl; Let the Pox be thy Friend, And the Plague work thy end, _Thus I would Cure you_.

_To his fairest_ VALENTINE _Mrs._ A.L.

[Music]

Come pretty Birds present your Lays, And learn to chaunt a G.o.ddess Praise; Ye Wood-Nymphs let your Voices be, Employ'd to serve her Deity: And warble forth, ye Virgins Nine, _Some Musick to my_ Valentine.

Her Bosom is Loves Paradise, There is no Heav'n but in her Eyes; She's chaster than the Turtle-Dove, And fairer than the Queen of Love; Yea, all Perfections do combine, To beautifie my Valentine.

She's Nature's choicest Cabinet, Where Honour, Beauty, Worth and Wit, Are all united in her Breast, The Graces claim an Interest: All Vertues that are most Divine, Shine clearest in my Valentine.

_A_ BALLAD,

_Or_, COLLIN'S _Adventure._

[Music]

As _Collin_ went from his Sheep to unfold, In a Morning of _April_, as grey as 'twas cold, In a Thicket he heard a Voice it self spread; Which was, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

He peep'd in the Bushes, and spy'd where there lay His Mistress, whose Countenance made _April May_; But in her looks some sadness was read, Crying O, O, _I am almost dead_.

He rush'd in to her, and cry'd what's the matter, Ah! _Collin_, quoth she, why will you come at her, Who by the false Swain, hath often been misled, For which O, O, _I am almost dead_.

He turn'd her Milk-pail, and there down he sat, His Hands stroak'd his Beard, on his Knee lay his Coat, But, O, still _Mopsa_ cry'd, before ought was said, _Collin_, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

No more, quoth stout _Collin_! I ever was true, Thou gav'st me a Handkerchief all hemm'd with Blue: A Pin-box I gave thee, and a Girdle so Red, Yet still she cry'd, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

Delaying, quoth she, hath made me thus Ill, For I never fear'd _Sarah_ that dwelt at the Mill, Since in the Ev'ning late her Hogs thou hast fed, For which, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

_Collin_ then chuck'd her under the Chin, Cheer up for to love thee I never will lin, Says she, I'll believe it when the Parson has read, 'Till then, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

Uds boars, quoth _Collin_, I'll new my shon, And e'er the Week pa.s.s, by the Ma.s.s it shall be done: You might have done this before, then she said, But now, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

He gave her a twitch that quite turn'd her round, And said, I'm the truest that e'er trod on Ground, Come settle thy Milk-Pail fast on thy Head, No more O, O, _I am almost dead_.

Why then I perceive thoul't not leave me in the Lurch, I'll don my best Cloths and streight to the Church: Jog on, merry _Collin_, jog on before, For I Faith, I Faith, _I'll dye no more_.

_The_ Town-Rakes, _A_ SONG: _Set by Mr._ Daniel Purcell: _Sung by Mr._ EDWARDS.