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Printed for HARRISON and Co. No. 18, Paternofter-Row.





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HE virgin, when foften'd by May,
Attends to the villager's vows;
The birds fweetly bill on the fpray,
And poplars embrace with their boughs.
On Ida bright Venus may reign,

Ador'd for her beauty above;
We shepherds who dwell on the plain,
Hail May as the mother of love.

From the Weft as it wantonly blows,
Fond zephyr careffes the vine,
The bee fteals a kifs from the rofe,
And willows and woodbines entwine.
The pinks by the rivulet fide,

That border the vernal alcove,
Bend downward to kifs the foft tide:
For May is the mother of love.

May tinges the butterfly's wing,

He flutters in bridal array ;
If the lark and the linnet now fing,

Their mufic is taught them by May:
The ftock-dove, reclufe with her mate,
Conceals her fond blifs in the grove;
And, murmuring, feems to repeat,
That May is the mother of love.

The goddefs will vifit ye foon,

Ye virgins be sportive and gay;

Get your pipes, oh! ye fhepherds, in tune,
For mufic muft welcome the day.
Would Damon have Phillis prove kind,
And all his keen anguish remove;
Let him tell a foft tale, and he'll find,
That May is the mother of love.



Written by G. A. STEVENS.

ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrofial feaft,

Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing; Merry Momus,among them, was fat as a gueft, (Homer-fays the celeftials lov'd laughing :) On each in the fynod the humourist droll'd, So none could his jokes difapprove; He fung, repartee'd and fome fmart ftories told, And at laft thus began upon Jove.

"Sire! Atlas, who long has the univerfe bore, "Grows grievously tir'd of late;

"He fays that mankind are much worse than " before,

"So he begs to be eas'd of their weight." Jove, knowing the earth on poor Atlas was hurl'd,

From his fhoulders commanded the ball, Gave his daughter, Attraction, the charge of the world,

And he hung it up high in his hall.

Mifs, pleas'd with the prefent, review'd the globe round,

To fee what each climate was worth; Like a diamond, the whole with an atreofphere bound,

And the variously planted the earth: With filver, gold, jewels, the India endow'd; France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear; What fuited each clime, on each clime the beftow'd,

And freedom, fhe found, flourish'd here.

Four cardinal virtues the left in this ifle,
As guardians to cherish the root;

The bloffoms of liberty 'gan then to fmile,
And Englishmen fed on the fruit.
Thus fed, and thus bred, from a bounty fo rare,
O preserve it as free as 'twas giv'n!
We will, while we've breath; nay, we'll grafp
"it in death,

"Then return it untainted to heav'n."



Written by the EDITOR.

E fwains who inhabit the green,

You have heard that my Phillida's dead; In your looks the fad tidings are feen,

And her worth in your grief may be read.

Oh! was be not lovely and fair;

Has the fcarce left fuch beauty behind? And yet what was that to compare

With the graces which dwelt in her mind? But let me not think of her charms!

How I lov'd her my verfe cannot tell : Death has fnatch'd her away from my arms; With angels, alone, must she dwell.

In vain do I utter my grief;

Her lofs the whole world can't fupply: Death only will give me relief;

To him, then, with pleasure I fly.

Oh! fhew me the way to my fair;

Lead me on to the regions of blifs! And, fure as my love was fincere,

I'll praife thee, great victor, for this!




"TWAS at the gates of Calais, Hogarth tells,

Where fad defpair and famine always dwells, A meagre Frenchman, Madam Grandfire's cook, As home he fteer'd, his carcafe that way took; Bending beneath the weight of fam'd Sir Loin, On whom he often with'd, in vain, to dine: Good Father Dominick by chance came by, With rofy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye; Who, when he first beheld the greasy load, His benediction on it he beflow'd: And as the folid fat his fingers prefs'd, He lick'd his chaps, and thus the knight addrefs'd.


O rare roast beef! lov'd by all mankind,
If I were doom'd to have thee,

When drefs'd and garnish'd to my mind,
And fwimming in thy gravy,
Not all thy country's force combin'd
Should from my fury fave thee.
Renown'd Sir Loin, oft-times decreed
The theme of English ballad;

On thee c'en kings have deign'd to feed,
Unknown to Frenchmen's palate:
Then how much doth thy tafte exceed
Soup-meagre, frogs, and fallad!

A half-ftarv'd foldier, fhirtless, pale and lean,
Who fuch a fight before had never feen,
Like Garrick's frighted Hamlet, gaping stood,
And gaz'd with wonder on the British food.
His morning's mefs forfook the friendly bowl,
And in fmali ftreams along the pavement stole.
He heav'd a figh, which gave his heart relief,
And then, in plaintive tone, declar'd his grief.

Ah, facre dieu! vat do I fee yonder,"
Dat look fo tempting red and vite?
Begar, it is the roaft beef from Londre
Oh! grant to me von little bite,

But to my guts if you give no heeding,
And cruel fate dis boon denies ;
In kind compaffion unto my pleading..
Return, and let me feaft my eyes.

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Written by Mr. GAY.

Go, rofe, my Chloe's bofom grace;
How happy should I prove,
Might I fupply that envy'd place
With never-fading love!
There, phoenix like, beneath her eye,
Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die;
Involu'd in, &c.

Know, hapless flow'r, that thou shalt find
More fragrant roles there,

I fee thy with 'ring head reclin'd
With envy and defpair:

One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love.
You die, &c.

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Sung in Love in a Village. CUPID, god of foft perfuafion, Take the helpless lover's part: Seize, oh! feize, fome kind occafion To reward a faithful heart.

Juftly thofe we tyrants call,
Who the body would enthrall;
Tyrants of more cruel kind,
Those who would enflave the mind.
Cupid, god of, &c.

What is grandeur? Foe to reft;
Childish mummery, at best.
Happy I in humble state!

Catch, ye fools, the glitt'ring bait.
Cupid, god of, &c.

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