Yet now I think on't, let it be, To send it me is vain; Thou hast a Thief in either Eye, Will steal it back again. Why should two Hearts in one Breast be, And yet not be together; Or Love, where is thy Sympathy, If thou our Hearts do sever? But Love is such a Mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I am best resolv'd, Then I am most in Doubt. Then farewel Care, then farewel Woe, I will no longer pine; But I'll believe I have her Heart, As well as she hath mine. BACCHUS _turn'd Doctor. The Words by_ BEN. JOHNSON. [Music] Let Soldiers fight for Pay and Praise, And Money be Misers wish; Poor Scholars study all their Days, And Gluttons glory in their Dish: _'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_ _Therefore give us chearing Bowls._ Let Minions marshal in their Hair, And in a Lover's lock delight; And artificial Colours wear, We have the Native Red and White. _'Tis Wine_, &c. Your Pheasant, Pout, and Culver Salmon, And how to please your Palates think: Give us a salt _Westphalia-Gammon_, Not Meat to eat, but Meat to drink. _'Tis Wine_, &c. It makes the backward Spirits brave, That lively, that before was dull; Those grow good Fellows that are grave, And kindness flows from Cups brim full, _'Tis Wine_, &c. Some have the Ptysick, some the Rhume, Some have the Palsie, some the Gout; Some swell with Fat, and some consume, But they are sound that drink all out. _'Tis Wine_, &c. Some Men want Youth, and some want Health, Some want a Wife, and some a Punk; Some Men want Wit, and some want Wealth, But he wants nothing that is drunk. _'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_ _Therefore give us chearing Bowls._ JENNY _making Hay._ [Music] Poor _Jenny_ and I we toiled, In a long Summer's Day; Till we were almost foiled, With making of the Hay; Her Kerchief was of Holland clear, Bound low upon her Brow; Ise whisper'd something in her Ear, _But what's that to you?_ Her Stockings were of Kersey green, Well stitcht with yellow Silk; Oh! sike a Leg was never seen, Her Skin as white as Milk: Her Hair as black as any Crow, And sweet her Mouth was too; Oh _Jenny_ daintily can mow, _But_, &c. Her Petticoats were not so low, As Ladies they do wear them; She needed not a Page I trow, For I was by to bear them: Ise took them up all in my Hand, And I think her Linnen too; Which made me for to make a stand; _But_, &c. King _Solomon_ had Wives enough, And Concubines a Number; Yet Ise possess more happiness, And he had more of Cumber; My Joys surmount a wedded Life, With fear she lets me mow her; A Wench is better than a Wife, _But_, &c. The Lilly and the Rose combine, To make my _Jenny_ fair; There's no Contentment sike as mine; I'm almost void of Care: But yet I fear my _Jenny's_ Face, Will cause more Men to woe; Which if she should, as I do fear, _Still, what is that to you?_