IV.

She. Yet, at least, 'tis a pleasure to know
That you are not unhappy alone:
For the nymph you adore

Is as wretched, and more;

And counts all your fufferings her

own.

V.

He. O ye gods, let me fuffer for both;

At the feet of my Phyllis I'll lie :
I'll refign up my breath,

And take pleasure in death,

To be pitied by her when I die.

VI.

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25

She. What her honour denied you in life,
In her death she will give to your

love.

Such a flame as is true

After fate will renew,

For the fouls to meet clofer above. 30

SONG OF THE SEA-FIGHT,

IN AMBOYNA.

WHO ever faw a noble fight,

That never view'd a brave fea-fight!
Hang up your bloody colours in the air,

Up with your fights, and your nettings pre

pare;

Your merry mates cheer, with a lufty bold

fpright,

Now each man his brindice, and then to the

fight.

St. George, St. George, we cry,

The fhouting Turks reply.

Oh now it begins, and the gun-room grows

hot,

Ply it with culverin and with small shot;

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10

Hark, does it not thunder? no, 'tis the guns

roar,

The neighbouring billows are turned into gore;
Now each man must resolve to die,
For here the coward cannot fly.

Drums and trumpets toll the knell,*
And culverins the paffing bell.

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Now, now they grapple, and now board amain; Blow up the hatches, they're off all again; Give them a broadfide, the dice run at all, Down comes the maft and yard, and tacklings fall;

20

She grows giddy now, like blind Fortune's

wheel,

She finks there, fhe finks, the turns up her keel. Who ever beheld fo noble a fight,

As this fo brave, fo bloody fea-fight!

INCANTATION IN CEDIPUS.

TIR.CHUSE the darkest part o’th’

Such as ghofts at noon-day love.
Dig a trench, and dig it nigh
Where the bones of Laius lie;
Altars rais'd, of turf or stone,
Will th' infernal pow'rs have none,
Anfwer me, if this be done?
ALL PR. "Tis done.

TIR. Is the facrifice made fit?
Draw her backward to the pit:
Draw the barren heifer back;
Barren let her be, and black.
Cut the curled hair that grows
Full betwixt her horns and brows:
And turn your faces from the fun,
Anfwer me, if this be done?

ALL P. "Tis done.

grove,

TIR. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine,

To Mother Earth and Proferpine:

Mingle milk into the stream;

Feast the ghosts, that love the steam :
Snatch a brand, from funeral pile:
Tofs it in, to make them boil:
And turn your faces from the fun,
Anfwer me, if this be done?

ALL P. "Tis done.

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10

15

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25

SONG,

IN ALBION AND ALBANIUS.

CEASE, Augufta! cease thy mourning,

Happy days appear,
God-like Albion is returning,
Loyal hearts to chear!

Every grace his youth adorning,
Glorious as the ftar of morning,
Or the planet of the year.

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