Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy, Vol. 5 of 6

Ballads, English; Songs, English

But when you find the Love fit comes upon her,
Never trust much to her Honour;
Tho' she may very high stand on't,
Yet when her love is Ascendant,
Her Vertue's quite out of Doors
    High Breeding, rank Feeding,
    With lazy Lives leading,
    In Ease and soft Pleasures,
    And taking loose Measures,
    With Play-house Diversions,
    And Midnight Excursions,
    With Balls Masquerading,
    And Nights Serenading,
Debauch the Sex into Whores, Sir.




_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ PACK.


[Music]

Farewel ungrateful Traytor,
  Farewel my Perjur'd Swain:
Let never injur'd Creature,
  Believe a Man again:
The pleasure of possessing,
  Surpasses all expressing;
But Joys too short a Blessing,
  And love too long a Pain:
_But Joys too short a Blessing,_
  _And Love too long a Pain._

'Tis easie to deceive us,
  In pity of your Pain;
But when we Love, you leave us,
  To rail at you in vain:
Before we have descry'd it,
  There is no Bliss beside it;
But she that once has try'd it,
  Will never Love again.

The Passion you pretended,
  Was only to obtain;
But when the Charm is ended,
  The Charmer you disdain:
Your Love by ours we measure,
  'Till we have lost our Treasure;
But dying is a Pleasure,
  When living is a Pain.




_A_ SONG.


[Music]

You I Love by all that's true,
More than all things here below;
with a Passion far more great,
Than e'er Creature loved yet:
And yet still you cry forbear,
Love no more, or Love not here.

Bid the Miser leave his Ore,
Bid the Wretched sigh no more;
Bid the Old be young again,
Bid the _Nun_ not think of Man:
_Sylvia_ thus when you can do,
Bid me then not think on you.

Love's not a thing of Choice, but Fate,
What makes me Love, that makes you Hate:
_Sylvia_ you do what you will,
Ease or Cure, Torment or Kill:
Be Kind or Cruel, False or True,
Love I must, and none but you.




_A_ SONG.

Note: _You must Sing 8 lines to the first Strain._


[Music]

Let's be merry blith and jolly,
Stupid Dulness is a Folly;
'Tis the Spring that doth invite us,
Hark, the chirping Birds delight us:
Let us Dance and raise our Voices,
Every Creature now rejoyces;
Airy Blasts and springing Flowers,
Verdant Coverings, pleasant Showers:
Each plays his part to compleat this our Joy,
And can we be so dull as to deny.

Here's no foolish surly Lover,
That his Passions will discover;
No conceited fopish Creature,
That is proud of Cloaths or Feature:
All things here serene and free are,
They're not Wise, are not as we are;
Who acknowledge Heavens Blessings,
In our innocent Caressings:
Then let us Sing, let us Dance, let us Play,
'Tis the Time is allow'd, 'tis the Month of _May_.




_A New_ SONG, _the Words by Mr._ J.C. _Set to Musick by Dr._ Prettle.


[Music]

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

General

Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy, Vol. 5 of 6

Ballads, English; Songs, English

But when you find the Love fit comes upon her,
Never trust much to her Honour;
Tho' she may very high stand on't,
Yet when her love is Ascendant,
Her Vertue's quite out of Doors
    High Breeding, rank Feeding,
    With lazy Lives leading,
    In Ease and soft Pleasures,
    And taking loose Measures,
    With Play-house Diversions,
    And Midnight Excursions,
    With Balls Masquerading,
    And Nights Serenading,
Debauch the Sex into Whores, Sir.




_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ PACK.


[Music]

Farewel ungrateful Traytor,
  Farewel my Perjur'd Swain:
Let never injur'd Creature,
  Believe a Man again:
The pleasure of possessing,
  Surpasses all expressing;
But Joys too short a Blessing,
  And love too long a Pain:
_But Joys too short a Blessing,_
  _And Love too long a Pain._

'Tis easie to deceive us,
  In pity of your Pain;
But when we Love, you leave us,
  To rail at you in vain:
Before we have descry'd it,
  There is no Bliss beside it;
But she that once has try'd it,
  Will never Love again.

The Passion you pretended,
  Was only to obtain;
But when the Charm is ended,
  The Charmer you disdain:
Your Love by ours we measure,
  'Till we have lost our Treasure;
But dying is a Pleasure,
  When living is a Pain.




_A_ SONG.


[Music]

You I Love by all that's true,
More than all things here below;
with a Passion far more great,
Than e'er Creature loved yet:
And yet still you cry forbear,
Love no more, or Love not here.

Bid the Miser leave his Ore,
Bid the Wretched sigh no more;
Bid the Old be young again,
Bid the _Nun_ not think of Man:
_Sylvia_ thus when you can do,
Bid me then not think on you.

Love's not a thing of Choice, but Fate,
What makes me Love, that makes you Hate:
_Sylvia_ you do what you will,
Ease or Cure, Torment or Kill:
Be Kind or Cruel, False or True,
Love I must, and none but you.




_A_ SONG.

Note: _You must Sing 8 lines to the first Strain._


[Music]

Let's be merry blith and jolly,
Stupid Dulness is a Folly;
'Tis the Spring that doth invite us,
Hark, the chirping Birds delight us:
Let us Dance and raise our Voices,
Every Creature now rejoyces;
Airy Blasts and springing Flowers,
Verdant Coverings, pleasant Showers:
Each plays his part to compleat this our Joy,
And can we be so dull as to deny.

Here's no foolish surly Lover,
That his Passions will discover;
No conceited fopish Creature,
That is proud of Cloaths or Feature:
All things here serene and free are,
They're not Wise, are not as we are;
Who acknowledge Heavens Blessings,
In our innocent Caressings:
Then let us Sing, let us Dance, let us Play,
'Tis the Time is allow'd, 'tis the Month of _May_.




_A New_ SONG, _the Words by Mr._ J.C. _Set to Musick by Dr._ Prettle.


[Music]

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy, Vol. 5 of 6

Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy, Vol. 5 of 6

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