The Restauration now's the Word, A blessed Revolution; That has secur'd the Church, the Crown, And _England's_ Constitution: May ev'ry Loyal Soul rejoice, May WHIGS and Canters mourn, Sir; Who ever thought that _Coventry_, Shou'd make a due Return, Sir. We Rally'd the Church-Militant, And fell to work ding-dong, Sir; _Craven_ and _Gery_ are the Names, That do adorn our Song, Sir: _Beaufort_, _Ormond_, _Rochester_, And more than we can tell, Sir; Are Themes that well deserve the Pen, Of brave _Sacheverell_, Sir. The glorious Sons of _Warwickshire_, May justly be commended; There's ne'er a Member now Elect, That ever has offended: _Denbigh_ and _Craven_ we esteem, A Loyal Noble pair, Sir; And hope to see our worthy Friend, Great _Bromly_ in the Chair, Sir. _A_ SONG. Such an happy, happy Life, Ne'er had any other Wife; As the loose _Corinna_ knows, Between her Spark, Her Spark and Spouse: The Husband lies and winks his Eyes, The valiant makes Addresses, The wanton Lady soon complies, With tenderest Caresses. The Wife is pleas'd, The Husband eas'd, The Lover made a drudge, His Body's drain'd, his Pocket's squeez'd; And who'll his Pleasure grudge, _Such an happy_, &c. _Corinna's_ gay, As Flow'rs in _May_, And struts with slanting Ayre; The Lovers for her Pride doth pay, The Cuckold's free from Care, _Such an happy_, &c. COLLIN's _Complaint_. [Music] Despairing besides a clear stream, A Shepherd forsaken was laid; And whilst a false Nymph was his Theme, A Willow supported his Head: The Winds that blew over the Plain, To his Sighs with a Sigh did reply; And the Brook in return of his Pain, Ran mournfully murmuring by. Alas silly Swain that I was, Thus sadly complaining he cry'd; When first I beheld that fair Face, 'Twere better by far I had dy'd: She talk'd, and I blest the dear Tongue, When she smil'd 'twas a Pleasure too great; I listned, and cry'd when she Sung, Was Nightingale ever so sweet. How foolish was I to believe, She cou'd doat on so lowly a Clown; Or that a fond Heart wou'd not grieve, To forsake the fine Folk of the Town: To think that a Beauty so gay, So kind and so constant wou'd prove; Or go clad like our Maidens in Gray, Or live in a Cottage on Love. What tho' I have skill to complain, Tho' the Muses my Temples have crown'd; What tho' when they hear my soft Strains, The Virgins sit weeping around: Ah _Collin_ thy Hopes are in vain, Thy Pipe and thy Lawrel resign; Thy false one inclines to a Swain, Whose Musick is sweeter than thine.