Next that same Bowl, where _Jove_ Divine, Drank _Nectar_ in, I'd fill with Wine; That whereas, You should pause, You should quaff; Like a _Greek_, Till your Cheek, To _Ceres_ and to _Venus_, To _Bacchus_ and _Silenus_, _Thus would I Cure ye_. Last of all there should appear, Seven Eunuchs sphere-like Singing here, In the Praise, Of those Ways, Of delights; _Venus_ can, Use with Man, In the Night; When he strives to adorn, _Vulcan's_ Head with a HORN, _Thus would I Cure ye_. But if not Gold, nor Woman can, Nor Wine, nor Songs, make merry then; Let the Batt, Be thy Mate, And the Owl; Let a Pain, In thy Brain, Make thee Howl; Let the Pox be thy Friend, And the Plague work thy end, _Thus I would Cure you_. _To his fairest_ VALENTINE _Mrs._ A.L. [Music] Come pretty Birds present your Lays, And learn to chaunt a Goddess Praise; Ye Wood-Nymphs let your Voices be, Employ'd to serve her Deity: And warble forth, ye Virgins Nine, _Some Musick to my_ Valentine. Her Bosom is Loves Paradise, There is no Heav'n but in her Eyes; She's chaster than the Turtle-Dove, And fairer than the Queen of Love; Yea, all Perfections do combine, To beautifie my Valentine. She's Nature's choicest Cabinet, Where Honour, Beauty, Worth and Wit, Are all united in her Breast, The Graces claim an Interest: All Vertues that are most Divine, Shine clearest in my Valentine. _A_ BALLAD, _Or_, COLLIN'S _Adventure._ [Music] As _Collin_ went from his Sheep to unfold, In a Morning of _April_, as grey as 'twas cold, In a Thicket he heard a Voice it self spread; Which was, O, O, _I am almost dead_. He peep'd in the Bushes, and spy'd where there lay His Mistress, whose Countenance made _April May_; But in her looks some sadness was read, Crying O, O, _I am almost dead_. He rush'd in to her, and cry'd what's the matter, Ah! _Collin_, quoth she, why will you come at her, Who by the false Swain, hath often been misled, For which O, O, _I am almost dead_. He turn'd her Milk-pail, and there down he sat, His Hands stroak'd his Beard, on his Knee lay his Coat, But, O, still _Mopsa_ cry'd, before ought was said, _Collin_, O, O, _I am almost dead_. No more, quoth stout _Collin_! I ever was true, Thou gav'st me a Handkerchief all hemm'd with Blue: A Pin-box I gave thee, and a Girdle so Red, Yet still she cry'd, O, O, _I am almost dead_. Delaying, quoth she, hath made me thus Ill, For I never fear'd _Sarah_ that dwelt at the Mill, Since in the Ev'ning late her Hogs thou hast fed, For which, O, O, _I am almost dead_. _Collin_ then chuck'd her under the Chin, Cheer up for to love thee I never will lin, Says she, I'll believe it when the Parson has read, 'Till then, O, O, _I am almost dead_.