_A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ DAMASCENE.

Beauty, like Kingdoms not for one,
Was made to be possest alone;
By bounteous Nature 'twas design'd,
To be the Joy of Human-kind.

So the bright Planet of the Day,
Doth unconfin'd his Beams display;
And generous heat to all dispence,
Which else would dye without that Influence.

Nor is your mighty Empire less,
On you depends Man's Happiness;
If you but frown, we cease to be,
And only live by your Decree.

But sure a Tyrant cannot rest,
Nor harbour in so fair a Breast;
In Monsters Cruelty we find,
An Angel's Face, must have an Angel's Mind.

_The_ BALLAD _of the True_ TROJAN.

[Music:
_Troy_ had a breed of brave stout Men,
yet _Greece_ made shift to rout her;
cause each Man Drank as much as Ten,
and thence grew ten times stouter:
Tho' _Hector_ was a _Trojan_
true as ever pist 'gain wall Sir,
_Achilles_ bang'd him black and blue, for he Drank more than all Sir,
for he Drank more, for he drank more, for he drank more than all Sir,
for he drank more, for he drank more, for he drank more than all Sir.]

Let _Bacchus_ be our God of War,
We shall fear nothing then Boys;
We'll Drink all dead, and lay 'em to Bed,
And if they wake not Conquered,
We'll Drink 'em dead again Boys:
Nor were the _Grecians_ only fam'd,
For Drinking and for fighting;
For he that Drank and wan't asham'd,
Was ne'er asham'd on's Writing.

He that will be a Souldier then,
Or Wit, must drink good Liquor;
It makes base Cowards Fight like Men,
And roving Thoughts fly quicker:
Let _Bacchus_ be both God of War,
And God of Wit, and then Boys,
We'll Drink and fight, and Drink and write,
And if the Sun set with his Light,
We'll Drink him up again Boys.

_Young_ STREPHON _and_ PHILLIS.

[Music]

Young _Strephon_ and _Phillis_,
They sat on a Hill;
But the Shepherd was wanton,
And wou'd not sit still:
His Head on her Bosom,
And Arms round her Wast;
He hugg'd her, and kiss'd her,
And clasp'd her so fast:
'Till playing and jumbling,
At last they fell tumbling;
And down they got 'em,
But oh! they fell soft on the Grass at the Bottom.

As the Shepherdess tumbled,
The rude Wind got in,
And blew up her Cloaths,
And her Smock to her Chin:
The Shepherd he saw
The bright _Venus_, he swore,
For he knew her own Dove