SONG,

IN KING ARTHUR.

Man fings. OH fight, the mother of defires, What charming objects doft thou yield! "Tis fweet, when tedious night ex

pires,

To fee the rofy morning gild

The mountain-tops, and paint the field!

But when Clarinda comes in fight,

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She makes the fummer's day more bright;

And when fhe goes away, 'tis night.

Chor. When fair Clarinda comes in fight, &c.

Wom. fings. 'Tis fweet the blushing morn to

view;

And plains adorn'd with pearly dew:

But fuch cheap delights to fee,

Heaven and nature

Give each creature;

They have eyes, as well as we;

This is the joy, all joys above,
To fee, to fee,

That only she,

That only the we love!

Chor. This is the joy, all joys above, &c.

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SONG,

IN KING ARTHUR.

TWO daughters of this aged stream are we; And both our fea-green locks have comb'd for thee;

Come bathe with us an hour or two,

Come naked in, for we are fo:

What danger from a naked foe?

Come bathe with us, come bathe and share,
What pleasures in the floods appear;
We'll beat the waters till they bound,
And circle round, around, around,

And circle round, around.

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SONGS TO BRITANNIA,

IN KING ARTHUR.

SONG I.

YE bluftering brethren of the skies,

Whose breath has ruffled all the watry plain, Retire, and let Britannia rife,

In triumph o'er the main.

Serene and calm, and void of fear,
The Queen of Islands muft appear:
Serene and calm, as when the Spring
The new created world began,
And birds on boughs did foftly fing
Their peaceful homage paid to man;
While Eurus did his blasts forbear,

In favour of the tender year.

Retreat, rude winds, retreat

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To hollow rocks, your stormy seat;
There fwell your lungs, and vainly, vainly

threat.

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SONG II.

For folded flocks, on fruitful plains,
The fhepherd's and the farmer's gains,
Fair Britain all the world outvies;
And Pan, as in Arcadia, reigns,

Where pleasure mixt with profit lies.

Though Jafon's fleece was fam'd of old,
The British wool is growing gold;

No mines can more of wealth fupply;
It keeps the peafant from the cold,
And takes for kings the Tyrian dye.

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SONG III.

Faireft ifle, all ifles excelling,
Seat of pleasures and of loves;
Venus here will chufe her dwelling,
And forfake her Cyprian groves.

Cupid from his favourite nation,
Care and envy will remove;
Jealoufy, that poisons paffion,
And despair, that dies for love.

Gentle murmurs, fweet complaining,
Sighs, that blow the fire of love;
Soft repulfes, kind disdaining,

Shall be all the pains you prove.

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Every fwain shall pay his duty,
Grateful every nymph fhall prove ;
And as these excel in beauty,

Thofe fhall be renown'd for love.

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