For Bounty, Love and large Relief, For Noble Conversation; For easing the poor Widows Grief, In Times of Lamentation: For House of Hospitality, I'll challenge any Donor; There's few or none that can outvey, _King_ Henry's _Man of Honour_. _A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ FRANK. Fickle Bliss, fantastick Treasure, Love how soon, how soon, How soon thy Joys, are past? Since we soon must lose the Pleasure, Oh! 'twere better ne'er to tast: Gods! How sweet would be possessing, Did not Time its Charms destroy; Or could Lovers with the Blessing, Lose the Thoughts of _Cupid's_ Joy: Lose the Thoughts, the Thoughts, The Thoughts of _Cupid's_ Joy. Cruel Thoughts, that pain yet please me, Ah! no more my rest destroy; Shew me still if you would ease me, Love's Deceits, but not it's Joy: Gods what kind, yet cruel Powers, Force my Will to rack my Mind! Ah! too long we wait for Flowers, Too, too soon, to fade design'd. _A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ Akeroyde. [Music] That scornful _Sylvia's_ Chains I wear, The Groves and Streams can tell; Those blasted with my Sighs appear, These with my Tears my Tears, o're swell. But Sighs and Tears bring no redress, And Love that sees, that sees me grieve; Conspires with _Sylvia_ to oppress, The Heart he should relieve. The God that should reward my Pain, Makes _Sylvia_ more my Foe: As She encreases in Disdain, He makes my Passion grow: And must I, must I still admire, Those Eyes that cause my Grief? 'Tis just, since I my self conspire Against my own Relief. _A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ ROBERT KING. All own the Young _Sylvia_ is fatally Fair; All own the Young _Sylvia_ is pretty; Confess her good Nature, and easie soft Air, Nay more, that's She's wanton and witty. Yet all the keen Arrows at _Damon_ still cast, Cou'd never, cou'd never, his quiet destroy, 'Till the cunning _Coquett_, shot me flying at last; _By a Jene say, Jene say, quoy_, _By a Jene say, Jene say, quoy._ So tho' the young _Sylvia_ were not very Fair, Tho' she were but indifferently pretty; Much wanting _Aurelia's_, or _CÊlia's_ soft Air, But not the dull sence of the City: Yet still the dear Creature wou'd please without doubt, And give me abundance of Joy; Since all that is missing is plainly made out, _By a Jene say, Jene say quoy._ _A_ SONG, _Set by Mr._ FRANK. [Music] A Swain in despair, Cryed Women ne'er trust, Alass they are all Unkind or unjust. A Nymph who was by, Soon thus did reply; The Men we all find More false and unkind. Except me he cryed, And me She replyed, Then try me said he, I dare not said she: The Swain did pursue, Each alter'd their Mind: She vow'd He was true, He swore She was kind. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ AKEROYDE. [Music]