The happiest mortal once was I, Though bright as heav'n whose stamp she bears, O. G SONG LXI. RIM king of the ghofts make hafte, See how the pale moon does waste, And just now is in the wane. Come, you night hags with all your charms, And reveling witches away And hug me close in your arms, To you my respects I'll pay. I'll court you, and think you fair, Since love does distract my brain; I'll go, and I'll wed the night-mare, And kiss her, and kiss her again : But if the prove peevish and proud, Then a pize on her love, let her go; I'll feek me a winding shroud, And down to the fhades below. A lunacy fad I endure Since reafon departs away; I call to thofe hags for a cure, As knowing not what I fay. The beauty whom I do adore Now flights me with scorn and disdain; I never fhall fee her more, Ah! how fhall I bear my pain? I ramble and range about To find out my charming faint; Whilst she at my grief does flout, And laughs at my loud complaint. Diftraction I fee is my doom, Of this I am now too fure; A rival is got in my room, While torments I do endure. Strange fancies do fill my head, I fee her enthroned on high; And labour to reach the sky. When thus I have raved a while, And wearied myself in vain, I lie on the barren foil, And bitterly do complain. Till flumber hath quieted me, I dream that my charming fair Are on the fair pillow bespread. Grim king of the ghofts be true, And hurry me hence away, O. SONG LXII. BY SIR CAR SCROOPE. ΟΝ NE night when all the village flept, The wretched fhepherd waking kept To tell the woods his care; *In Lees tragedy of Mithridates King of Pontus, Begone (faid he) fond thoughts, begone! Why should you wafte your tears for one, Yet, oh! ye birds, ye flocks, ye pow'rs, But fince fhe's loft-oh! let me have In this cold bank I'll make a grave, Sad nightingales the watch fhall keep, SONG LXIII. A PASTORAL ELEGY. H, Damon, dear fhepherd, adieu! By love and first nature allied, Together in fondness we grew; For For thy faith which resembled my own, Ah, amon, dear fhepherd, adieu! What blifs can hereafter be mine? To his friendship I ne'er can incline, For fear I fhould mourn him like thee. Since thou art denied to my heart, Ah, Damon, dear fhepherd, farewell! His afhes who lov'd me fo well, And murmur each eve o'er his stone, SONG LXIV. BY MR. EDWARD MOOR E. ARK! hark! 'tis a voice from the tomb! HA Come, Lucy, it cries, come away; The grave of thy Collin has room, |