English

I.

A Man, a Woman, Sir Roger.

W OULD'ST thou ken Nature in her better part?
Go, search the cots and lodges of the hind;
If they have any, it is rough-made art,
In them you see the naked form of kind;
Haveth your mind a liking of a mind?
Would it ken everything, as it might be?
Would it hear phrase of vulgar from the hind,
Without wiseacre words and knowledge free?
If so, read this, which I disporting penned,
If naught beside, its rhyme may it commend.

II.

Nygelle.

Sprites of the blest, the pious Nigel said,
Pour out your pleasure on my father's head.

I.

Richard of Lion's heart to fight is gone,
Upon the broad sea do the banners gleam;
The amenused nations are aston
To ken so large a fleet, so fine, so breme.
The barkes heads do cut the polished stream,
Waves sinking, waves upon the hard oak rise;
The water-slughorns, with a swotye cleme,
Strive with the dinning air, and reach the skies.
Sprites of the blest, on golden thrones a-stead,

I.

W HEN England, smoking from her deadly wound,
From her galled neck did pluck the chains away,
Knowing her lawful sons fall all around,
(Mighty they fell, 'twas Honour led the fray).
Then in a dale, by eve's dark surcote gray,
Two lonely shepherds did abrodden fly,
(The rustling leaf doth their white hearts affray),

TO BE SUNG BY MRS. BARTHELEMON AND MASTER CHENEY .

A WAY to the woodlands, away!
The shepherds are forming a ring
To dance to the honour of May,
And welcome the pleasures of Spring.
The shepherdess labours a grace,
And shines in her Sunday's array,
And bears in the bloom of her face
The charms and the beauties of May.
Away to the woodlands, away!
The shepherds are forming a ring, &c.

Away to the woodlands, away!
And join with the amorous train:

A BACCHANALIAN

SUNG BY MR. REINHOLD

B ACCHUS , ever smiling power,
Patron of the festive hour!
Here thy genuine nectar roll
To the wide capacious bowl,
While gentility and glee
Make these gardens worthy thee.

Bacchus, ever mirth and joy,
Laughing, wanton, happy boy!
Here advance thy clustered crown,
Send thy purple blessings down;
With the Nine to please conspire,
Wreathe the ivy round the lyre.

STREPHON .

L UCY , since the knot was tied,
Which confirmed thee Strephon's bride,
All is pleasure, all is joy,
Married love can never cloy;
Learn, ye rovers, learn from this,
Marriage is the road to bliss.

LUCY .

Whilst thy kindness every hour
Gathers pleasure with its power,
Love and tenderness in thee
Must be happiness to me.
Learn, ye rovers, learn from this,
Marriage is substantial bliss.

BOTH .

ACT II. Scene I.

B ACCHUS , with his bowl on his head .

Air.

A LAS , alas! how fast
I feel my spirits sinking;
The joys of life are past,
I've lost the power of drinking.
'Egad, I find at last
The heavenly charms of tinking,
And in the sound I cast
The miseries of thinking.

Recitative.

I'm plaguy ill — in devilish bad condition —
What shall I do? — I'll send for a physician:

Act I. S CENE I.

JUPITER .

Recitative.

I SWEAR by Styx, this usage is past bearing;
My lady Juno ranting, tearing, swearing!
Why, what the devil will my godship do,
If blows and thunder cannot tame a shrew?

Air.

Though the loud thunder rumbles,
Though storms rend the sky;
Yet louder she grumbles,
And swells the sharp cry.

Her jealousy teasing,
Disgusting her form:
Her music as pleasing
As pigs in a storm.

THE VICTORY OF DEATH

I am true to you, Beloved and only Love,
Even though others seem to snatch away
This wayward heart of mine, and every day
Finds me still seeking in each stranger's face
The face I loved, and if at times I trace
A chance resemblance, see your mouth or eyes
(Eyes coloured like the clearest April skies)
I love you again Beloved and only Love.

I am true to you, Beloved and only Love,
Though you have grown indifferent to me;
Since Death has led you where I cannot see

THE VICTORY OF LOVE

Beloved I come to tell you it is Spring!
The old brown earth puts forth pale buds again;
Pierced by the silver arrows of the rain
Her wounded breasts bleed blossoms, violets cling
Across your grave ... and how the wild birds sing!
Safe sheathed in sunshine is fate's sword of pain,
But Beauty beckons to my soul in vain,
Since you are dead what comfort can she bring?
Oh, Lover, I am striving to forget,
But your gay laughter haunts me, and I still
Hunger to hear your voice, that used to thrill