one_;
Her Water in her Sleep,
_Oh Hone, Oh Hone_:
May never Pence nor Pounds,
Come more within the Bounds,
Of her Pocket Ad-sounds,
_Oh Hone, Oh Hone_.

DAMON _forsaken. Set by Mr._ WROTH.

[Music]

When that young _Damon_ bless'd my Heart,
And in soft Words did move;
How did I hug the pleasing Dart,
And thank'd the God of Love:
_Cupid_, said I, my best lov'd Lamb,
That in my Bosom lives:
To thee, for kindling this dear Flame,
To thee, kind God, I'll give.

But prying Friends o'er-heard my Vow,
And murmur'd in my Ear;
_Damon_ hath neither Flocks nor Plough,
Girl what thou dost beware:
They us'd so long their cursed Art,
And damn'd deluding sham;
That I agreed with them to part,
Nor offer'd up my Lamb.

_Cupid_ ask'd for his Offering,
'Cause I refus'd to pay;
He took my _Damon_ on his Wing,
And carry'd him quite away:
Pitch'd him before _Olinda's_ Charms,
Those Wonders of the Plain;
Commanding her into her Arms,
To take the dearest Swain.

The envy'd Nymph, soon, soon obey'd,
And bore away the Prize;
'Tis well she did, for had she stay'd,
I'd snatch'd him from her Eyes:
My Lamb was with gay Garlands dress'd,
The Pile prepar'd to burn;
Hoping that if the God appeas'd,
My _Damon_ might return.

But oh! in vain he's gone, he's gone,
_Phillis_ he can't be thine;
I by Obedience am undone,
Was ever Fate like mine:
_Olinda_ do, try all thy Charms,
Yet I will have a part;
For whilst you have him in your Arms,
I'll have him in my Heart.

_The Apparition to the Jilted Lover. Set by Mr._ WROTH.

[Music]

Think wretched Mortal, think no more,
How to prolong thy Breath:
For thee there are no Joys in store,
But in a welcome Death:
Then seek to lay thee under Ground,
The Grave cures all Despair;
And healeth every bitter Wound,
Giv'n by th' ungrateful Fair.

How cou'dst thou Faith in Woman think,
Women are _Syrens_ all;
And when Men in Loves Ocean sink,
Take Pride to see 'em fall:
Women were never real yet,
But always truth despise:
Constant to nothing but Deceit,
False Oaths and flattering Lies.

Ah! _Coridon_ bid Life adieu,
The Gods will thee prefer;
Their Gates are open'd wide for you,
But bolted against her:
Do thou be true, you vow'd to Love,
_Phillis_ or Death you'll have;
Now since the Nymph doth perjured prove,
Be just unto the Grave.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Heaven first created Woman to