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_Phillis_ lay aside your Thinking, Youth and Beauty shou'd be Gay, Laugh and talk, and mind your Drinking: Whilst we pa.s.s the Time away, Laugh and talk, and mind your Drinking, Whilst we pa.s.s the Time away.

They ought only to be pensive, Who dare not their Grief declare, Lest their story be offensive, But still languish in Despair, Lest their, _&c._

Yet what more torments your Lovers, They are Jealous, they obey, One whose Restless Minds discovers, She's no less a Slave than they, One whose, _&c._

_The Lascivious Lover and the coy La.s.s._

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Pish fye, you're rude Sir, I never saw such idle fooling; You're grown so lewd Sir, So debauch'd I hate your ways; Leave, what are you doing?

I see you seek my ruin, I'll cry out, pray make no delay, But take your Hand away; Ah! good Sir, pray Sir, don't you do so, Never was I thus abus'd so, By any Man, but you alone, Therefore Sir, pray begone.

_Advice to a Miser. Set by Mr._ James Graves.

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Retire old Miser, and learn to be wiser, In looking o'er Books ne'er spend all thy Time; But rather be thinking, of roaring and drinking, For by those to Promotion thou'lt speedily climb.

Then prithee be Jolly, desert this thy Folly, Make welcome thy Friends, and ne'er repine; For when thou art hurl'd into the next World, Thy Heir I'll engage it in Splendor will shine.

When thy Breath is just vanish'd, his care will be banisht, And scarce will he follow thy Corps to the Grave; Then be cautious and wary, for nought but Canary, He's a Fool that for others himself do's enslave.

_A_ SONG _in the Play call'd_, Rule a Wife and have Wife. _Set by Mr._ HENRY PURCELL. _Sung by Mrs._ HUDSON.

There's not a Swain on the Plain, Wou'd be blest like me, Oh! cou'd you but, cou'd you but, cou'd you but, on me smile; But you appear so severe, That trembling with fear, My heart goes pit a pat, pit a pat, pit a pat, all the while.

If I cry must I die, you make no reply, But look shy, and with a scornful Eye, Kill me by your cruelty; Oh! can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you, can you, can you be too hard to me.

_A_ SONG _in the Play call'd the_ LANCASHIRE WITCHES. _Sung by Mrs._ HUDSON, _and Set by Mr._ JOHN ECCLES.

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Tormenting Beauty leave my Breast, In spight of _Cloe_ I'll have rest; In vain is all her Syren Art, Still longer to hold my troubled Heart: For I'm resolv'd to break the Chain, And o'er her Charms the Conquest gain, And o'er her Charms the Conquest gain.

Insulting Beauty I have born, Too long your Female Pride and scorn; Too long have been your Publick Jest, Your common Theme at ev'ry Feast: Let others thee, vain Fair, pursue, Whilst I for ever bid adieu, Whilst I for ever bid adieu.

_A_ SONG _in the Comedy call'd_, The Wives Excuse: _Or_, Cuckolds make themselves. _Sung by Mr._ Mountford. _Set by Mr._ HENRY PURCELL.

Say cruel _Amoret_, how long, how long, In Billet-doux, and humble Song; Shall poor _Alexis_, shall poor _Alexis_, poor _Alexis_ wooe?

If neither Writing, Sighing, Sighing, Dying, Reduce you to a soft complying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, when will you come too.

Full Thirteen Moons are now past o'er, Since first those Stars I did adore, That set my Heart on fire: The conscious Play-house, Parks and Court, Have seen my sufferings made your sport, Yet I am ne'er the nigher.

A faithful Lover shou'd deserve, A better Face, than thus to starve: In sight of such a Feast; But oh! if you'll not think it fit, Your hungry Slave shou'd taste on bit; Gives some kind looks at least.

_The Double Lover's Request._

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Such command o'er my Fate has your Love or your hate, That nothing can make me more wretched or great: Whilst expiring I lie, to live or to die, Thus doubtful the Sentence of such I rely: Your Tongue bids me go, tho' your Eyes say not so, But much kinder Words from their Language do flow.

Then leave me not here, thus between Hope and Fear, Tho' your Love cannot come, let your pity appear; But this my request, you must grant me at least, And more I'll not ask, but to you leave the rest; If my fate I must meet, let it be at your Feet, Death there with more joy, than else-where I wou'd greet.

_A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ ROB. KING.

[Music]

Tell me why so long you try me, Still I follow, still you fly me; Will the race be never done, Will it be ever but begun: Could I quit my Love for you, I'd ne'er love more what e'er I do; When I speak truth, you think I lie, You think me false, but say not why.

_A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ BARINCLOE.

Tis a foolish mistake, That Riches can speak, Or e'er for good Rhetoric pa.s.s: To a Fool I confess, Your Gold may address, Or else where the Master's an a.s.s: To a Woman of Sense, 'Tis a sordid pretence, That a Golden Effigies can move her; No Face on the Coin, Is half so Divine, As that of a faithful young Lover.

But Men when they Love, Their Pa.s.sion to prove, From the Court to the dull Country Novice; To the Fair they're so kind, First to fathom their Mind, Next search the Prerogative Office: No _imprimis_ I give, Then the Fair one they give, Notwithstanding their strong Protestations; Till the Lady discover, No Fortune, no Lover, Then draws off her fond Inclination,