Let those Youths who Freedom prize, Far from the conquering _Sylvia_ run, Never see her killing Eyes, Or hear her soft enchanting Tongue: For such sure Destruction waits, On those Darts with which she wounds; No shepherd ever can escape, But falls if _Sylvia_ does but Frown. _Damon_ to his cost has prov'd, All resistance is but vain; Heaven has form'd her to be lov'd, And made her Queen of all the Plain: _Damon_ when he saw her Face, From her Beauty would have fled; But the Charmer turn'd her Voice, And with a Song she struck him dead. _A_ SONG. [Music] Your Melancholy's all a Folly, The Peace I'm sure is Sign'd; The _French_ are for't, so is our Court, And the _Dutch_ must be inclin'd: What is't to us who's King of _Spain_, So we are Masters of the Main, Our Fleet must always the Trade maintain, If we are not Banter'd and Bubbl'd. And Cheated and Banter'd and Bubbl'd. We very well know when _Marlborough_, Did take the Towns in _Flanders_; 'Twas _English-men_, did pay for them, Tho' they put in _Dutch_ Commanders; So that while we were humbling _France_, _Hollands_ Power we did advance, And made 'em Great at our expence, And so we were Banter'd, _&c._ We must suppose, the WHIGS are Foes, When Treatys they will Sign a; To give the _Dutch_ so plaguy much, And call it the Barrier Line a: For how can we Great _Europe_ Sway, Or keep the Ballance every way, I fear we shall pay for't another Day, For we have been Banter'd, _&c._ For Liberty, and Property, 'Twas once we us'd to Fight; 'Gainst Popery, and Slavery, We did it with our Might: But now the Taxes make us poor, The Emperor may Swear and roar, We neither can nor will do more, For we have been Banter'd, _&c._ FANATICKS then, are now the Men, Who Kingly Pow'r divide; Their Villany to Monarchy, 'Tis makes 'em _France_ deride: If _Hollanders_ wou'd choose a King, As much as now their Praises Sing, They wou'd Curse, and Damn, and Fling, And cry they were Banter'd, _&c._ I swear adsnigs, the Canting WHIGS, Have run their Knavish Race; The Church and Queen, are Flourishing, Now they are in Disgrace: Great _Harly_ he has set us right, And _France_ will banish _Perkenite_, So we're no more the _Holland_ Bite, Nor will we be Banter'd and Bubbl'd, And Cheated and Banter'd and Bubbl'd. _The_ MOHOCKS. _A_ SONG. [Music] There's a new set of Rakes, Entitled Mohocks, Who infest Her Majesties Subjects; He who meets 'em at Night, Must be ready for flight, Or withstanding he many a Drub gets. In their nightly Patrole, They up and down rowle, To the Bodily fear of the Nation; Some say they are Gentle- men, otherwise Simple, And their Sense like their Reputation.