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At last, my wishes to fulfil,
They did their power resign;
And they not unto mine.
Never to grieve or fret;
Without the least regret.
SET BY C. R.
Chloe beauty has and wit,
And an air that is not common; Every charm in her does meet,
Fit to make a handsome woman. But we do not only find
Here a lovely face or feature, For she's merciful and kind;
Beauty's answered by good-nature. She is always doing good,
Of her favours never sparing ; And, as all good Christians should,
Keeps poor mortals from despairing. Jove the power knew of her charms,
And that no man could endure them, So, providing 'gainst all harms,
Gave to her the power to cure them.
SINCE, Moggy, I mun bid adieu,
How can I help despairing ? Let cruel Fate us still pursue,
There's nought more worth my caring. 'Twas she alone could calm my soul,
When racking thoughts did grieve me; Her eyes my trouble could control,
And into joys deceive me.
Your banks mun I be walking ;
Or pretty Moggy's talking.
To grief, since we mun sever; For who can after parting live,
Ought to be wretched ever.
Some kind angel, gently flying,
Moved with pity at my pain, Tell Corinna I am dying,
Till with joy we meet again. Tell Corinna, since we parted
I have never known delight;
If I longer want her sight.
Thinks each lazy day a year,
Tell her too, not distant places,
(Will she be but true and kind) Join'd with time and change of faces,
E’er shall shake my constant mind,
HASTE, my Nannette,
My lovely maid,
Thy swain has made.
I made the bower,
With many a flower.
Shall near us come:
My sheep are dumb.
Take thou my crook,
From Nannette's flock.
To her so dear;
Are less my care.
If thou’rt afraid,
To call for aid;
For with her swain
My love shall stay,
And the sheep stray.
WHILST others proclaim
Dearest Nelly the lovely I'll sing;
Which lovers can't think an ill thing.
Her complexion divinely is fair ;
And black as a coal is her hair.
ravish a kiss;
An exquisite beauty she is.
The Graces play all round about her;
And there is no living without her,
TURTLE AND SPARROW.
AN ELEGIAC TALE'.
Behind an unfrequented glade,
T. My hopes are lost, my joys are fled,
1 This piece was written upon the sincere affection shown by Queen Anne for the loss of her royal consort, Prince George of Denmark, 1708,