IV.

Four Cardinal Virtues fhe left in this Ifle,
As guardians to cherish the root;

The bloffoms of LIBERTY then 'gan to fmile,

And Englishmen fed on the fruit.

Thus fed and thus bred, from a bounty fo rare,

O preferve it as free as 'twas given!

We will whilft we've breath; nay, we'll grafp it in death,

Then return it untainted to heav'n.

SONG.

Ο

NE evening GooD HUMOUR took WiT as his guest,
Refolv'd to indulge in a fenfible feast;

Their liquor was claret, and FRIENDSHIP their host,
And mirth, fong, and fentiment, garnish'd each toast.
Derry down, &c.

But while, like true bucks, they enjoy'd their defign,
For the joy of a Buck lies in love, wit, and wine;
Alarm'd, they all heard at the door a loud knock,
And the watchman, hoarfe, bellow'd,
" 'twas paft

twelve o'clock."

Derry down, &c.

They nimbly ran down, the disturbing dog found,
And up stairs they dragg'd the impertinent hound;
When brought to the light, how much they were pleas'd
To fee 'twas the grey glutton, TIME, they had seiz’d.

Derry down, &c.

His glafs as his lanthorn, his scythe as his pole,

And his fingle lock dangl'd a down his smooth skull; My friends, quoth he, coughing, I thought fit to knock, And bid ye begone, for 'tis past 12 o'clock.

Derry down, &c.

Say'd the venom-tooth'd fage, on this advice fix,
Tho' nature strikes twelve, folly still points to fix;
He longer had preach'd, but no longer they'd bear it,
So hid him at once in a hogfhead of claret.

Derry down, &c.

This is right, call'd out Wit; while you're yet prime,

There's nothing like claret for killing of Time:
Huzza! reply'd Love, now no more can he knock,
Or, impertinent, tell us 'tis past 12 o'clock.

Derry down, &c.

Since TIME is confin'd to our wine, let us think
By this maxim were fure of our Time when we drink;
With bumpers, my lads, let our glasses be prim'd,—
Now we're certain our drinking is always well-tim'd.
Derry down, &c.

CANTATA

FROM THE ODE OF ANACREON.

AIR.

IF gold could lengthen life, I fwear,

It then should be my chiefest care To get a heap, that I might fay, When Death came to demand his pay, Thou flave take this, and go thy way.

}

But fince life is not to be bought,
Why should I plague myself for nought;
Or foolishly disturb the skies

With vain complaints and fruitless cries.

RECITATIVE.

For fince the fates will have it fo,

What good will gold, or whining, do?

AIR.

Give me, to ease my thirsty foul,
The joys and comforts of the bowl;
Freedom and health, and while I live,
Let me not want what love can give;
Then fhall I die in peace, and have
This confolation in my grave,

That once I had the WORLD my slave.

M

}

SONG.

WHEN ORPHEUS went down to the regions below,

Which men are forbidden to fee,

He tun'd up his lyre, as old histories fhew,
To fet his EURYDICE free.

All Hell ftood amaz'd-that a perfon fo wife
Should rafhly endanger his life,

And venture fo far; but how vaft their furprise
When they found that he came for his wife!!

II.

To find out a punishment due to the fault,

OLD PLUTO long puzzled his brain,——
But Hell had not torments fufficient, he thought,
So he gave him his wife back again.

But pity, fucceeding, foon vanquifh'd his heart,
And, pleas'd with his playing fo well,
He took her again in reward for his art,
Such power had music in Hell!

SONG.

COMPANION TO THE LAST.

WHEN ORPHEUS went down to the regions below

To bring back the wife that he lov'd,

Old Pluto confounded, as hiftories fhew,
To find that his mufic fo mov'd,

That a woman fo good, fo virtuous, and fair,
Should be by a man thus trepann'd;

To give up her freedom for forrow and care,-
He fwore the deferv'd to be d-n'd.

II.

For punishment he never ftudied a whit;
The torments of Hell had not pain
Sufficient to curse her,fo Pluto thought fit
Her husband fhould have her again.

But foon he compaffion'd the woman's hard fate,
And, knowing of mankind fo well,

He recall'd her again, before 'twas too late,
And faid-she'd be happier in H-ll.

SONG.

FROM THE MASQUE OF COMUS.

THE MUSIC BY DR. ARNE.

Y dimpled brook and fountain brim,

BY

The wood-nymphs, deck'd with daifies trim,

Their merry wakes and paftimes keep:
What has night to do with fleep.
Night has better sweets to prove,———
Venus now wakes, and wakens love;
Come, let us our rights begin,
'Tis only daylight that makes fin.