B

Low, blow, Boreas, blow, and let thy furly winds
Make the billows foam and roar;

Thou canst no terror breed in valiant minds,

But spite of thee we'll live and find a fhoar.

Then cheer, my mates, and be not aw'd,
But keep the gun-room clear;

Tho' hell's broke loose, and the devils roar abroad,
Whilst we have fea-room here, boys, neve fear.

Hey! how she toffes up, how far!

The mounting top-mast touch'd a star; The meteors blaz'd as through the clouds we came; -And Salamander-like we liv'd in flame.

But now, now we fink, now, now we go
Down to the deepest shades below:

Alas! alas! where are we now!

Who, who can tell!

Sure 'tis the lowest room of hell,

Or where the fea-gods dwell;

With them we'll live, with them we'll live and reign, With them we'll laugh, and fing, and drink amain; But fee, we mount, fee, fee, we rise again

Chorus.

Tho' flashes of lightning, and tempefts of rain,
Do fiercely contend which shall conquer the main;
Tho' the captain does fwear, instead of a prayer,
And the fea is all fire by the damons of th' air;
We'll drink and defy,

We'll drink and defy

The mad fpirits that fly

From the deep to the sky,

And fing whilft loud thunder, and fing whilst loud thun

For fate ftill will have

(der does bellow;

A kind fate for the brave,

And ne'er make his grave

Of a falt-water wave,

To drown, to drown, no, never to drown a goodfellow.

Au!

A

H! bright Belinda, hither fly,
And fuch a light difcover,
As may the absent sun supply,
And cheer the drooping lover.

Arife, my day, with fpeed arife,
And all my forrows banish;
Before the fun of thy bright eyes
All gloomy terrors vanish.

No longer let me figh in vain,

And curfe the hoarded treafure:
Why fhou'd you love to give us pain,
When you were made for pleasure?

The petty powers of hell destroy;
To fave's the pride of heaven:
To you the first, if you prove coy;
If kind, the last is given.

The choice then fure's not hard to make

Betwixt a good and evil;. Which title had you rather take,

My goddefs, or my devil?

LOVE

L

OVE arms himself in Celia's eyes,
Whene'er weak reafon wou'd rebel;

And every time I dare be wife,
Alas! a deeper wound I feel.

Repeated thoughts prefent the ill,

Which feeing I must still endure; They tell me love has darts to kill, And wisdom has no power to cure.

Then cruel reafon give me rest,

Quit in my heart thy feeble hold;.
Go try thy force in Celia's breast,
For that is difengag'd and cold:

There all thy niceft arts employ;
Confefs thy felf her beauty's flave,
And argue, whilft fhe may deftroy,
How great, how god-like 'tis to fave.

ARISE

RISE, arife, great dead, for arms renown'd, AR

Rife from your urns, and fave your dying story; Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drown'd,

For mighty William feizes all your glory,

Again the British trumpet sounds,
Again Britannia bleeds;

To glorious death, or comely wounds,
Her god-like monarch leads.

Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe,
Coeleftial minds from clay untie;
Let coward fpirits dwell below,
And only give the brave to die.

BEAUT

EAUTY is not what I pray,
I ask no fhining graces;

Celia has another way,

Without the tricks of faces.

So our humours ftill agree,

Kind heav'n, it is enough for me.

Mere fruition is a joy

But of a moment's lasting:
Fruit, that doth so quickly cloy,
It furfeits but with tafting.
No true blifs in love we find,
Unless two bodies fhare one mind.

CUSTOM,