The Hive: A Collection of the Most Celebrated Songs, Том 4

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J. Walthoe, 1732

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Стр. 1 - For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to Love, And when we meet a mutual heart Come in between, and bid us part ? Bid us sigh on from day to day, And wish and wish the soul away; Till youth and genial years are flown, And all the life of life is gone...
Стр. 156 - AWAY, let nought to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care ; Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. What tho...
Стр. 157 - How should I love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung! To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! And when with envy time transported Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys.
Стр. 123 - If I would not give up the three Graces, I wish I were hang'd like a dog, And at court all the drawingroom faces, For a glance of my sweet Molly Mog.
Стр. 48 - Ah Colin! give not her thy vows, Vows due to me alone: Nor thou, fond maid, receive his...
Стр. 48 - Nor think him all thy own. To-morrow, in the church to wed, Impatient, both prepare ! But know, fond maid ; and know, false man, That Lucy will be there!
Стр. 147 - And for the guests that were to dine, Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus. The god near Cupid drew his chair, Near Comus, Jocus plac'd ; For wine makes Love forget its care, And Mirth exalts a feast.
Стр. 112 - And wish me better sped, Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead. Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear, And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish.
Стр. 102 - THE last time I came o'er the moor, I left my love behind me : Ye pow'rs ! what pain do I endure, When soft ideas mind me : Soon as the ruddy morn display'd The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid In fit retreats for wooing.
Стр. 49 - When, stretch'd before her rival's corse, She saw her husband dead. Then to his Lucy's new-made grave, Convey'd by trembling swains, One mould with her, beneath one sod, For ever he remains.

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