Some folks who have grown old and sour, Say love does nothing but annoy. The fact is, they have had their hour, So envy what they can't enjoy. I like the glance--I like the sigh-- That does of ardent passion tell! If some folks were as young as I, I'm sure they'd like it quite as well. Old maiden aunts so hate the men, So well know how wives are harried, It makes them sad--not jealous--when They see their poor dear nieces married. All men are fair and false, they know, And with deep sighs they assail 'em, It's so long since they tried men, though, I rather think their mem'ries fail 'em. DUET (_Flam and Rose_) _Flam._ 'Tis true I'm caressed by the witty, The envy of all the fine beaux, The pet of the court and the city, But still, I'm the lover of Rose. _Rose._ Country sweethearts, oh, how I despise! And oh! how delighted I am To think that I shine in the eyes Of the elegant--sweet--Mr. Flam. _Flam._ Allow me [_offers to kiss her_]. _Rose._ Pray don't be so bold, sir [_kisses her_]. _Flam._ What sweets on that honey'd lip hang! _Rose._ Your presumption, I know, I should scold, sir, But I really _can't_ scold Mr. Flam. _Both._ Then let us be happy together, Content with the world as it goes, An unchangeable couple for ever, Mr. Flam and his beautiful Rose. SQUIRE NORTON'S SONG The child and the old man sat alone In the quiet, peaceful shade Of the old green boughs, that had richly grown In the deep, thick forest glade. It was a soft and pleasant sound, That rustling of the oak; And the gentle breeze played lightly round, As thus the fair boy spoke:-- 'Dear father, what can honour be, Of which I hear men rave? Field, cell and cloister, land and sea, The tempest and the grave:-- It lives in all, 'tis sought in each, 'Tis never heard or seen: Now tell me, father, I beseech, What can this honour mean?' 'It is a name--a name, my child,-- It lived in other days, When men were rude, their passions wild, Their sport, thick battle-frays. When, in armour bright, the warrior bold Knelt to his lady's eyes: Beneath the abbey pavement old That warrior's dust now lies. 'The iron hearts of that old day Have mouldered in the grave; And chivalry has passed away, With knights so true and brave; The honour, which to them was life, Throbs in no bosom now; It only gilds the gambler's strife, Or decks the worthless vow.' DUET (_The Squire and Lucy_) _Squire._ In rich and lofty station shine, Before his jealous eyes; In golden splendour, lady mine, This peasant youth despise.