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SONG LXVIII.

BY MR. GARRICK*.

YE fair married dames, who fo often deplore,

E

That a lover once bless'd is a lover no more ;
Attend to my ccunsel, nor blush to be taught,
That prudence must cherish what beauty has caught.

The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of your eye,
Your roses and lilies may make the men sigh;
But roses and lilies, and sighs pass away,
And passion will die as your beauties decay.

Use the man that you wed like your fav’rite guittar ;
Though music in both, they are both apt to jar;
How tuneful and soft from a delicate touch,
Not handled too roughly, nor play'd on too much!

The sparrow and linnet will feed from your hand,
Grow tame by your kindness, and come at command:
Exert with your husband the same happy skill;
For hearts, like your birds, may be tam'd to your will.

Be gay and good-humour’d, complying and kind;
Turn the chief of your care from your face to your mind;
'Tis there that a wife may her conquests improve,
And Hymen shall rivet the fetters of Love.

Sung by mrs. Cibber, in the comedy of The way to keep him.

SONG

SONG LXIX.

THE WAY TO KEEP HIM.

E fair possess’d of every charm
To

the will; Whose smiles can rage itself disarm;

Whose frowns at once can kill:
Say, will you deign the verse to hear,

Where flattery bears no part ;
An honest verse that flows sincere,

And candid from the heart?

Great is your power, but, greater yet,

Mankind it might engage,
If, as ye all can make a net,

Ye all could make a cage.
Each nymph a thousand hearts may take,

For who's to beauty blind?
But to what end a pris’ner make,

Unless we've strength to bind ?

Attend the counsel often told ;

Too often told in vain :
Learn that best art, the art to hold,

And lock the lovers chain.
Gamesters to little purpose win,

Who lose again as fast;
Though beauty may the charm begin,

'Tis sweetness makes it last.

SONG

SONG LXX.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

DY ISAAC WATTS D.D.

SAY

AY, mighty Love, and teach my song,

To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs,
Whose yielding hearts and joining hands
Find bleffings twisted with their bands,

To soften all their

cares.

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Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains,
That thoughtless fly into the chains,

As custom leads the way:
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,

And be as bless’d as they.

Not fordid fouls of earthly mould,
Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold,

To dull embraces move :
So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,

And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton Aames; those raging fires

The purer bliss destroy:

On

On Ætnas top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed,

T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs, whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,

Can mingle hearts and hands :
Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are married just like Stoic fouls,

With ofiers for their bands.

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Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still filent, or that still complain,

Can the dear bondage bless :
As well may heavenly consorts spring
From two old lutes with ne’er a string,

Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,

The rugged and the keen:
Sampsons young foxes might as well
In bonds of chearful wedlock dwell,

With fire-brands tied between.

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For Love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tyger from the deer,
For native

rage

and native fear Rise and forbid delight.

Two

Two kindeft fouls alone must meet;
"Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,

And feeds their mutual loves :
Bright Venus, on her rolling throne,
Is drawn by gentleft birds alone,

And Cupids yoke the doves.

SONG LXXI.

FOR R A N E L A G H.

BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD ESO

Y

E belles, and ye flirts, and ye pert little things,

Who trip in this frolicfome round!
Pray tell me from whence this indecency springs,

The fexes at once to confound?
What means the cock'd hat, and the masculine air,

With each motion design'd to perplex ?
Bright eyes were intended to languish, not stare,
And softness the test of

your

sex.

The girl who on beauty depends for support,

May call every art to her aid;
The bosom display'd, and the petticoat short,

Are samples the gives of her trade.
But you, on whom Fortune indulgently smiles,

And whom Pride has preserv'd from the snare,
Should flily attack us with coyness and wiles,

Not with open and insolent air,

The

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