O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, Change as ye list ye winds, my heart shall be, Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind, Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thus every beauteous object that I view, Tho' battle calls me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Tho' cannons roar, yet free from harms Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. The boatswain gives the dreadful word, They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head: Her less'ning boat unwilling rows to land; Adieu, she cries, and waved her lily hand. [Gay.] DAPHNIS stood pensive in the shade. And sighs reliev'd his love-sick mind: Why ring the woods with warbling throats? My Chloe's voice that wakes my pains: As thus he melancholy stood, Dejected as the lonely dove, Sweet sounds broke gently through the wood. How foolish is the nymph, she cries, Our artful lips were made to feign. As t'other day my hand he seiz'd, And hasty from his hold withdrew. 'Tis true, thy tuneful reed I blam'd, Much more to hear thee speak. My heart forebodes that I'm betray'd, The youth stepp'd forth with hasty pace, DESPAIRING SHEPHERD. [By Rowe.] DESPAIRING beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid, And whilst a false nymph was his theme, A willow supported his head; The wind that blew over the plain To his sighs with a sigh did reply, And the brook in return to his pain Ran mournfully murmuring by. Alas! silly swain that I was! Thus sadly complaining he cried; When first I beheld that fair face, "Twere better by far I had died. She talk'd, and I blest the dear tongue, When she smil'd 'twas a pleasure too great! I listen'd, and cried, when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet? How foolish was I to believe She would doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve To forsake the fine folks of the town; To think that a beauty so gay, So kind and so constant would prove, To go clad like our maidens in gray, And live in a cottage on love. What tho' I have skill to complain, Tho' the Muses my temples have crown'd? What tho' when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around? Ah Colin thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign, Thy fair one inclines to a swain Whose music is sweeter than thine. |