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SONG.

My silks and fine array,

My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away.

And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold; Oh, why to him was 't given, Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb Where all love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding-sheet;
When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!

SONG.

LOVE and harmony combine
And around our souls entwine,

While thy branches mix with mine
And our roots together join.

Joys upon our branches sit,

Chirping loud and singing sweet;

Like gentle streams beneath our feet, Innocence and virtue meet.

Thou the golden fruit dost bear,
I am clad in flowers fair;

Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,
And the turtle buildeth there.

There she sits and feeds her young;
Sweet I hear her mournful song:
And thy lovely leaves among,
There is Love: I hear his tongue.

There his charm'd nest he doth lay,
There he sleeps the night away,
There he sports along the day,
And doth among our branches play.

SONG.

I LOVE the jocund dance,
The softly-breathing song,
Where innocent eyes do glance,
Where lisps the maiden's tongue.

I love the laughing vale,

I love the echoing hill,

Where mirth does never fail,

And the jolly swain laughs his fill.

I love the pleasant cot,

I love the innocent bower,
Where white and brown is our lot,
Or fruit in the mid-day hour.

I love the oaken seat

Beneath the oaken tree,

Where all the old villagers meet,
And laugh our sports to see.

I love our neighbours all,

But, Kitty, I better love thee: And love them I ever shall,

But thou art all to me.

MAD SONG.

THE wild winds weep,

And the night is a-cold; Come hither, Sleep,

And my griefs unfold! But lo! the Morning peeps Over the eastern steeps, And rustling birds of dawn The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault

Of paved heaven,

With sorrow fraught,

My notes are driven :

They strike the ear of night,
Make weep the eyes of day;
They make mad the roaring winds,
And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud,
With howling woe
After night I do crowd,

And with night will go;

I turn my back to the East

Whence comforts have increas'd;

For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.

SONG.

How sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,
"Till I the Prince of Love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He show'd me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow; He led me through his gardens fair, Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty.

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