_The Knotting_ SONG. _The Words by Sir_ CHARLES SYDNEY. [Music] Hears not my _Phillis_ how the Birds, Their feather'd Mates salute: They tell their Passion in their Words, Must I alone, must I alone be mute: Phillis _without a frown or smile,_ _Sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while._ The God of Love in thy bright Eyes, Does like a Tyrant Reign; But in thy Heart a Child he lies, Without a Dart or Flame. _Phillis_, &c. So many Months in silence past, And yet in raging Love; Might well deserve one word at last, My Passion should approve. _Phillis_, &c. Must then your faithful Swain expire, And not one look obtain; Which to sooth his fond desire, Might pleasingly explain. _Phillis_, &c. _The_ FRENCH KING _in a foaming Passion for the loss of his Potent Army in the_ NETHERLANDS, _which were Routed by his Grace the Duke of_ MARLBOROUGH. [Music] Old _Lewis le Grand_, He raves like a Fury, And calls for _Mercury_; Quoth he, if I can, I'll finish my Days; For why should I live? Since the Fates will not give One affable smile: Great _Marlborough_ Conquers, Great _Marlborough_ Conquers, I'm ruin'd the while. The Flower of _France_, And Troops of my Palace Which march'd from _Versales_ Who vow'd to Advance, With Conquering Sword, Are cut, hack'd and hew'd, I well may conclude, They're most of them Slain: Oh! what will become of, Oh! what will become of, My Grand-Son in _Spain_. My fortify'd Throne, Propt up by Oppression, Must yield at Discretion, For needs must I own, My Glory decays: Bold _Marlborough_ comes With ratling Drums, And thundering Shot, He drives all before him, He drives all before him, Oh! Where am I got? He pushes for Crowns, And slays my Commanders, And Forces in _Flanders_; Great Capital Towns, For _CHARLES_ has declar'd: These things like a Dart, Has pierced my Heart, And threatens my Death; Here do I lye sighing, Here do I lye sighing, And Panting for Breath. This passionate Grief, Draws on my Diseases, Which fatally ceases My Spirits in chief, A fit of the Gout, The Gravel and Stone, I have 'tis well known, At this horrid News, Of _Marlborough's_ Triumph, Of _Marlborough's_ Triumph, All Battles I lose. Wherever he comes, He is bold and Victorious, Successful and glorious, My two Royal Thumbs With anguish I bite: To hear his Success; Yet nevertheless, My passion's in vain: I pity my Darling, I pity my Darling, Young _Philip_ in _Spain_. I am out of my Wits, If e'er I had any; My Foes they are many, Which plagues me by fits, In _Flanders_ and _Spain_: I'm sick at my Heart, To think we must part, With what we enjoy'd, Towns, Castles, are taken, Towns, Castles, are taken, My Troops are destroy'd.