RIVALRY IN LOVE.

WILLIAM WALSH, born 1663, died 1709. Music by Dr. BOYCE.

Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners of each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you sce
Are labouring in my breast;
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest.
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope:

I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

The author of this song is mentioned in the correspondence and poems of Alexander Pope. "In 1705," says Dr. Johnson in his "Lives of the Poets," "Walsh began to correspond with Mr. Pope, in whom he discovered very early the power of poetry. Pope always retained a grateful sense of Walsh's notice, and mentioned him in one of his latest pieces among those that had encouraged his juvenile studies,

'Glanville the polite

And knowing Walsh would tell me I could write.””

TILL DEATH I SYLVIA MUST ADORE.

From "The Hive." A collection of Songs in four volumes, 12mo, 1723.

TILL death I Sylvia must adore ;

No time my freedom can restore;
For though her rigour makes me smart,
Yet when I try to free my heart,
Straight all my senses take her part.

And when against the cruel maid
I call my reason to my aid;
By that, alas! I plainly see
That nothing lovely is but she;
And reason captivates me more
Than all my senses did before.

WHY, LOVELY CHARMER.

From "The Hive."

WHY, lovely charmer, tell me why,
So very kind, and yet so shy?
Why does that cold forbidding air
Give damps of sorrow and despair?
Or why that smile my soul subdue,
And kindle up my flames anew?

In vain you strive, with all your art,
By turns to fire and freeze my heart;
When I behold a face so fair,

So sweet a look, so soft an air,
My ravish'd soul is charm'd all o'cr,—
I cannot love thee less or more.

UNHAPPY LOVE.

From "The Hive."

I SEE she flies me every where,
Her eyes her scorn discover:
But what's her scorn, or my despair,
Since 'tis my fate to love her?
Were she but kind whom I adore,

I might live longer, but not love her more.

THE FIRE OF LOVE.

From the "Examen Miscellaneum." 1702, where it is said to be by
Earl D. (DORSET).

THE fire of love in youthful blood,
Like what is kindled in brushwood,

But for a moment burns;

Yet in that moment makes a mighty noise;
It crackles, and to vapour turns,
And soon itself destroys.

But when crept into aged veins,
It slowly burns and long remains,
And with a silent heat,

Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long;
And though the flame be not so great,

Yet is the heat as strong.

FAIR HEBE.

BY LORD CANTALUPE. From a half-sheet, with the Music, printed about 1720.

FAIR Hebe I left with a cautious design

To escape from her charms and to drown love in wine:
I tried it, but found, when I came to depart,

The wine in my head but still love in my heart.

I repaired to my Reason, entreating her aid,

Who paus'd on my case, and each circumstance weigh'd;
Then gravely pronounc'd, in return to my prayer,
That Hebe was fairest of all that was fair!

"That's a truth," replied I, "I've no need to be taught;
I came for your counsel to find out a fault."

"If that's all," says Reason, "return as you came, For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit

my name."

What hopes, then, alas! of relief from my pain,

When, like lightning, she darts through each throbbing vein; My senses surprised, in her favour took arms,

And reason confirms me a slave to her charms.

This song, adapted to the old English melody of "Pretty Polly Oliver," is an answer to Shenstone's, "When forced from dear Hebe to part."

TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE.
GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON, born 1709, died 1773. Music by HOLCOMBE. See
Ritson's "English Songs," vol. iii.

WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move ;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice than hers can hear,
No other wit but hers approve ;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

If she some other swain commend,

Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove;

Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleas'd before-
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove ;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

THE SHAPE ALONE.

Ritson assigns this song to AKENSIDE (born 1721, died 1770), but it is not contained in his works.

THE shape alone let others prize,

The features of the fair;

I look for spirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek and ivory arm
Shall ne'er my wishes. win;
Give me an animated form

That speaks a mind within;

A face where awful honour shines,
Where sense and sweetness move,

And angel innocence refines

The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame,

Without whose vital aid

Unfinish'd all her features seem,

And all her roses dead.

E

But, ah! where both their charms unite,
How perfect is the view,-
With every image of delight,
With graces ever new!

Of power to charm the deepest woe,
The wildest rage control;
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,
And rapture through the soul.

Their power but faintly to express
All language must despair;
But go behold Aspasia's face,
And read it perfect there.

O NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?

THOMAS PERCY, D.D., Bishop of Dromore, editor of the "Relics of Ancient English Poetry," born 1728, died 1811. Music by T. Carter.

O NANNY, Wilt thou go with me,
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee,-
The lowly cot and russet gown?
No longer drest in silken sheen,

No longer deck'd with jewels rare,—
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nanny, when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?
Say, canst thou face the parching ray,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind?
Oh, can that soft and gentle mien

Extremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor sad regret each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?