In her eyes (the bright stars that foretel what's to come)
By foft ftealth now and then I examine my doom.
I prefs her hand gently, look languishing down,
And by paffionate filence I make. my love known.

But oh! how I'm bleft when so kind she does prove,
By fome willing miftake to difcover her love;
When in ftriving to hide, fhe reveals all her flame,
And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name.

O.

SONG VI.

THE CONVERT.

BY THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

EJECTED as true converts die,

DE

But yet with fervent thoughts inflam'd;

So, faireft! at your feet I lie,

Of all my fexes faults afham'd.

Too long, alas! have I abus'd

Loves innocent and facred flame,
And that divineft pow'r have us'd
To laugh at, as an idle name.

But fince fo freely I confefs

A crime which may your fcorn produce,
Allow me now to make it lefs,

VOL. I.

By any juft and fair excuse.

I then did vulgar joys pursue,
Variety was all my blifs;
But ignorant of love and you,

How could I chufe but do amifs?

If ever now my wand'ring eyes

Search out amusements as before; If e'er I look, but to despise

Such charms, and value yours the more :

May fad remorse, and guilty shame,
Revenge your wrongs on faithless me;
And, what I tremble ev'n to name,
May I lose all, in lofing thee.

SIG

A ftranger grown to all delight; Paffing in tedious thoughts the day, And with unquiet dreams the night.

For
your
dear fake, my only care
Was how my fatal love to hide;
And ever drooping with despair,
Neglecting all the world befide.

"Till, like fome angel from above,
Cornelia came to my relief,

And then I found the joys of love,
Can make amends for all the grief.

Those pleafing hopes I now pursue
Might fail, if you could prove unjust;
But promises from Heav'n, and you,
Who is fo impious to mistrust?

Here all my doubts, and troubles end;
One tender word my foul affures;

Nor am I vain, fince I depend,

Not on my own defert, but yours.

SONG VIII.

BY SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

PHIL

HILLIS, men say that all my vows
Are to thy fortune paid,

Alas! my heart he little knows

Who thinks my love a trade.
Were I of all these woods the lord,
One berry from thy hand
More folid pleasure would afford,
Than all my large command.

My humble love has learnt to live
On what the niceft maid,
Without a conscious blush, may give
Beneath the myrtle fhade.
Of coftly food it has no need,

And nothing will devour,

And like the harmless bee can feed
And not impair the flow'r.

A fpotlefs innocence like thine
May fuch a flame allow,

Yet thy fair name for ever fhine,
As does thy beauty now.

I heard thee wish my lambs might ftray
Safe from the foxes power,
Though every one becomes his prey,

I'm richer than before.

SONG IX.

BY WILLIAM SHENSTONE ESQ

I

Told my nymph, I told her true,

My fields were fmall, my flocks were few;
While faultering accents fpoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove fincere.

Of crops deftroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold:
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then fincere?

How

How, chang'd by Fortunes fickle wind,
The friends I lov'd became unkind;
She heard, and shed a generous tear;
And is not Flavia then fincere?

How, if the deign'd my love to bless,
My Flavia muft not hope for dress;
This too fhe heard, and smil'd to hear;
And Flavia fure must be fincere.

Go fhear your flocks, ye jovial swains,
Go reap the plenty of your plains;
Defpoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavias love fincere.

SONG X.

BY MR. BAKER.

HADI been by fate decreed
Some humble cottage swain,

In Rofalindas fight to feed

My sheep upon the plain;

How happy would those days have pass'd

Which now are fill'd with woe!

You envious pow'rs! why have you plac'd
My fair one's lot fo low ?*

*This verfe is inferted by Bickerstaff in Love in a Village. The thefts of this ingenious plagiarift, however numerous, have been fo little noticed, that it may not be amifs to mention thofe which he has been already convicted of, in the poetical part only of the above opera. Hope thou nurse of young defire, his firft fong, is the fifth in Charles Johnfons Village opera. My heart's my own, my will is free, is taken, with the flightest variation, from Mitchells Highland Fair. Euftaces fong, Think my faireft how

delay,