Go tune your voices' harmony,
And sing I am her lover;

Strain loud and sweet, that every note
With sweet content may move her:
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice;
Yet still methinks I see her frown.
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly, make haste, see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber,
Sing round about her rosy bed,
That waking she may wonder;

Say to her, 't is her lover true,
That sendeth love to you, to you;

And when you have heard her kind reply,

Return with pleasant warblings.

UNKNOWN.

IN PRAISE OF WINE.

From "Ritson's English Songs," 1783. This song is, however, certainly older than 1754, and as remodelled in our own days, "They tell me I've proved unkind to my Lass," is as complete a statement of the superior advantages of the flask as could be desired by its most ardent advocate.

`HE women all tell me I'm false to my lass,

TH

That I quit my poor Chloe, and stick to my glass;
But to you men of reason, my reasons I'll own;
And if you don't like them, why-let them alone.

Although I have left her, the truth I 'll declare;
I believe she was good, and I'm sure she was fair;
But goodness and charms in a bumper I see,
That make it as good and as charming as she.

My Chloe had dimples and smiles, I must own;

But though she could smile, yet in truth she could frown;

But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine,

Did you e'er see a frown in a bumper of wine?

Her lilies and roses were just in their prime;
Yet lilies and roses are conquer'd by time:
But in wine, from its age such a benefit flows,
That we like it the better the older it grows.

They tell me my love would in time have been cloy'd,
And that beauty 's insipid when once 't is enjoy'd;
But in wine I both time and enjoyment defy;
For the longer I drink, the more thirsty am I.

Let murders, and battles, and history prove

The mischiefs that wait upon rivals in love;
But in drinking, thank heaven, no rival contends,
For the more we love liquor, the more we are friends.

She, too, might have poison'd the joy of my life,
With nurses, and babies, and squalling, and strife
But my wine neither nurses nor babies can bring;
And a big-bellied bottle 's a mighty good thing.

We shorten our days when with love we engage,
It brings on diseases and hastens old age;
But wine from grim death can its votaries save,
And keep out t'other leg when there's one in the grave.

Perhaps like her sex, ever false to their word,
She had left me to get an estate, or a lord;
But my bumper (regarding nor title nor pelf)
Will stand by me when I can't stand by myself.

Then let my dear Chloe no longer complain;
She's rid of her lover, and I of my pain;

For in wine, mighty wine, many comforts I spy;

Should you doubt what I say, take a bumper and try.

A FICTION.

HOW CUPID MADE A NYMPH WOUND HERSELF
WITH HIS ARROWS.

FRANCIS DAVISON? 1575 ?-1619?

This beautiful poem, which possesses a classical elegance hardly to be expected in the age of James I., is printed from " A Poetical Rhapsody" 1602, where it appeared signed" Anomos"; but it is attributed by Bishop Percy to Francis Davison.

IT

T chanced of late a shepherd's swain,
That went to seek a strayèd sheep,
Within a thicket on the plain,
Espied a dainty nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o'erspread her face,
Her careless arms abroad were cast,

Her quiver had her pillow's place,
Her breast lay bare to every blast.

The shepherd stood and gazed his fill;
Nought durst he do, nought durst he say;

When chance, or else perhaps his will,

Did guide the god of Love that way.

The crafty boy that sees her sleep,

Whom if she waked, he durst not see, Behind her closely seeks to creep,

Before her nap should ended be.

There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.

Scarce was he gone, when she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by;
Her bended bow in haste she takes
And at the simple swain lets fly.

Forth flew the shaft, and pierced his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain;

Yet up again forthwith did start,

And to the nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to see so strange a sight,

She shot, and shot, but all in vain ;
The more his wounds, the more his might;
Love yieldeth strength in midst of pain.

Her angry eyes are great with tears,

She blames her hands, she blames her skill; The bluntness of her shaft she fears,

And try them on herself she will.

Take heed, sweet nymph! try not thy shaft;
Each little touch will prick thy heart,
Alas! thou know'st not Cupid's craft;
Revenge is joy, the end is smart.