Thou shalt eat curds and cream

All the year lafting;

And drink the crystal stream,
Pleasant in tafting:

Wigge and whey, while thou burst,

And ramble-berry, Pye-lid and pafty cruft,

Pears, plums, and cherry; Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weaven skin;

Yet all not worth a pin!

Phillida flouts me!

Fair maidens, have a care,

And in time take me;

I can have those as fair,
If you forfake me.
For DOLL the dairy-maid
Laugh'd on me lately,
And wanton WINIFRED

Favours me greatly.

One throws milk on my clothes,

T'other plays with my nofe: What wanton figns are those ? Phillida flouts me !

I cannot work and fleep

All at a feafon;

Love wounds my heart so deep,

Without all reason.

I'gin to pine away,
With grief and forrow,
Like to a fatted beaft

Penn'd in a meadow.

I fhall be dead, I fear,

Within this thousand year,

And all for very fear!

Phillida flouts me !

From the fame, by D. Stroad.

ANSWER TO "THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY,"

RETURN, my joys! and hither bring
A tongue not made to speak but fing;
A jolly fpleen, an inward feast,
A caufelefs laugh without a jeft;
A face which gladnefs doth anoint,
An arm, for joy, flung out of joint;
A fpriteful gait that leaves no print,
And makes a feather of a flint;
A heart that's lighter than the air,
An eye ftill dancing in its sphere;
Strong mirth which nothing shall controul,
A body nimbler than a foul;

Free wand'ring thoughts, not tied to mufe,
Which, thinking all things, nothing chufe,
Which, ere we see them come, are gone;
Thefe life itself doth feed

upon:

Then take no care, but only to be jolly,
To be more wretched than we must, is folly.

This little piece is modern; but it is so beautiful an imitation of the old poets, that it is prefumed every reader will fee it with pleasure in this collection.

THE IVY.

How yonder ivy courts the oak,
And clips it with a falfe embrace!
So I abide a wanton's yoke,

And yield me to a smiling face.
And both our deaths will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

How fain the tree would fwell its rind!
But, vainly trying, it decays.
So fares it with my fhackled mind,

So wastes the vigour of my days.
And foon our deaths will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

A lafs, forlorn for lack of grace,
My kindly pity first did move;
And, in a little moment's space,
This pity did engender love.
And now my death muft prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

For now fhe rules me with her look,

And round me winds her harlot chain; Whilft, by a strange enchantment ftruck, My nobler will recoils in vain. And foon my death will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

But, had the oak denied its shade,
The weed had trail'd in duft below;
And she, had I her suit gainsaid,

Might still have pin'd in want and woe: Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

THE END.

LONDON, PRINTED BY T. RICKABY,

1790.