Love was a Monarch once, 'tis true, And God-like rul'd alone, And tho' his Subjects were but few, Their Hearts were all his own; But since the Slaves revolted are, And turn'd into a State, Their Int'rest is their only Care, And Love grows out of Date. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ FISHBURN. [Music] Wealth breeds Care, Love, Hope and Fear; What does Love our Business hear? While _Bacchus_ merry does appear, Fight on and fear no sinking, Charge it briskly to the Brim, 'Till the flying Top-sails swim, We owe the great Discovery to him Of this new World of Drinking. Grave Cabals that States refine, Mingle their Debates with Wine; _Ceres_ and the God o'th' Wine; Makes every great Commander. Let sober Sots Small-beer subdue, The Wise and valiant Wine does woe; The _Stagyrite_ had the honour to Be drunk with _Alexander_. Stand to your Arms, and now Advance A Health to the _English_ King of _France_; On to the next a _bon Speranze_, By _Bacchus_ and _Apollo_. Thus in State I lead the Van, Fall in your Place by your right-hand Man, Beat Drum! now March! Dub a dub, ran dan, He's a _Whig_ that will not follow. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Fishburn. [Music] Tho' Fortune and Love may be Deities still, To those they Oblige by their Pow'r; For my Part, they ever have us'd me so ill, They cannot expect I'll adore: Hereafter a Temple to Friendship I'll raise, And dedicate there all the rest of my Days, To the Goddess accepted my Vows, _To the Goddess accepted my Vows_. Thou perfectest Image of all things Divine, Bright Center of endless Desires, May the Glory be yours, and the Services mine, When I light at your Altars the Fires. I offer a Heart has Devotion so pure, It would for your Service all Torments endure, Might you but have all things you wish, _Might you_, &c. But yet the Goddess of Fools to despise, I find I'm too much in her Power; She makes me go where 'tis in vain to be wise, In absence of her I adore: If Love then undoes me before I get back, I still with resignment receive the Attack, Or languish away in Despair, _Or languish_, &c. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Henry Purcell. [Music] He himself courts his own Ruin, That with too great Passion sues 'em: When Men Whine too much in Wooing, Women with like Coquets use 'em: Some by this way of addressing Have the Sex so far transported, That they'll fool away the Blessing For the Pride of being Courted. Jilt and smile when we adore 'em, While some Blockhead buys the Favour; Presents have more Power o'er 'em Than all our soft Love and Labour, Thus, like Zealots, with screw'd Faces, We our fooling make the greater, While we cant long winded Graces, Others they fall to the Creature. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ DAMASENE. [Music]