HO' you make no return to my Passion,
Still, still I presume to adore;

TH

'Tis in Love but an odd Reputation, When faintly repuls'd to give o'er : When you talk of your duty,

I gaze at your Beauty;

Nor mind the dull Maxim at all,

Let it reign in Cheapside,

With the Citizens Bride:

It will ne'er be receiv'd, it will ne'er, ne'er, it will ne'er be receiv'd at White-hall.

What Apochryphal Tales are you told,
By one who wou'd make you believe;
That because of to have and to hold,
You still must be pinn'd to his Sleeve :
'Twere apparent high-Treason,
'Gainst Love and 'gainst Reason,

Shou'd one such a Treasure engross;

He who knows not the Joys,

That attend such a choice,

Shou'd resign to another that does.

The

The Cruel Fair requited, Written by J. R. Set by Mr. JAMES HART.

W

HEN Wit and Beauty meet in one,
That acts an Amorous part;
What Nymph its mighty Power can shun,
Or 'scape a wounded Heart:

Those Potent, wondrous Potent charms,
Where-e'er they bless a Swain;
He needs not sleep with empty Arms,
He needs not sleep with empty Arms,
Nor dread severe disdain.

Astrea saw the Shepherds bleed,
Regardless of their Pain;

Unmov'd she hear'd their Oaten Reed,
They Dance and Sung in vain;
At length Amintor did appear,
That Miracle of Man ;

He pleas'd her Eyes and charm'd her Ear,
He pleas'd her Eyes and charm'd her Ear,
She Lov'd and call'd him PAN.

But he as tho' design'd by Fate,
Revenger of the harms,

Which others suffer'd from her hate,
Rifl'd and left her Charms;
Then Nymphs no longer keep in pain,
A plain well-meaning Heart;

Lest you shou'd joyn for such disdain,
Lest you shou'd joyn for such disdain,
poor Astrea's smart.

In

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A SONG, Sung at the THEATRE-ROYAL, in the Play call'd ALPHONSO King of NAPLES. Set by Mr. EAGLES.

f

bo

WHEN

L

THEN Sylvia was kind, and Love play'd in her

WHEREyes,

We thought it no Morning till Sylvia did rise;
Of Sylvia the Hills and the Vallies all Rang,
For she was the Subject of every Song.

But now, oh how little her Glories do move,
That us'd to inflame us, with Raptures of Love;
Thy Rigour, oh Sylvia, will shorten thy Reign,
And make our bright Goddess a Mortal again.

Love heightens our Joys, he's the ease of our Care,
A spur to the Valiant, a Crown to the Fair;
Oh seize his soft Wings then before 'tis too late,
Or Cruelty quickly will hasten thy Fate.

'Tis kindness, my Sylvia, 'tis kindness alone,
Will add to thy Lovers, and strengthen thy Throne ;
In Love, as in Empire, Tyrannical sway,
Will make Loyal Subjects forget to Obey.

The