_Sun, gallop down the westlin skies, Gang soon to bed, and quickly rise; O lash your steeds, post time away, And haste about our bridal day: And if ye're wearied, honest light, Sleep, gin ye like, a week that night._ [_Exeunt._ End of the SECOND ACT. ACT THIRD. _SCENE I._ Now turn your eyes beyond yon spreading lime, And tent a man whase beard seems bleech'd with time; An elvand fills his hand, his habit mean: Nae doubt ye'll think he has a pedlar been. But whisht! it is the knight in masquerade, That comes hid in this cloud to see his lad. Observe how pleas'd the loyal sufferer moves Thro' his auld av'news, anes delightfu' groves. SIR WILLIAM _solus_. The gentleman thus hid in low disguise, I'll for a space unknown delight mine eyes, With a full view of every fertile plain, Which once I lost,--which now are mine again. Yet 'midst my joys, some prospects pain renew, Whilst I my once fair seat in ruins view. Yonder, ah me! it desolately stands, Without a roof; the gates faln from their bands; The casements all broke down; no chimney left; The naked walls of tap'stry all bereft: My stables and pavilions, broken walls! That with each rainy blast decaying falls: My gardens, once adorn'd the most compleat, With all that nature, all that art makes sweet; Where, round the figur'd green, and peeble walks, The dewy flowers hung nodding on their stalks: But, overgrown with nettles, docks and brier, No jaccacinths or eglintines appear. How do those ample walls to ruin yield, Where peach and nect'rine branches found a beild, And bask'd in rays, which early did produce Fruit fair to view, delightfu' in the use! All round in gaps, the most in rubbish ly, And from what stands the wither'd branches fly. These soon shall be repair'd:--And now my joy Forbids all grief,--when I'm to see my Boy, My only prop, and object of my care, Since Heaven too soon call'd hame his Mother fair. Him, ere the rays of reason clear'd his thought, I secretly to faithful Symon brought, And charg'd him strictly to conceal his birth, 'Till we should see what changing times brought forth. Hid from himself, he starts up by the dawn, And ranges careless o'er the height and lawn, After his fleecy charge, serenely gay, With other shepherds whistling o'er the day. Thrice happy life! that's from ambition free; Remov'd from crowns and courts, how chearfully A quiet contented mortal spends his time In hearty health, his soul unstain'd with crime! _Or sung as follows._ SANG XII.--_Tune_, Happy Clown.