Let not every vain Spark think that he can engage, The Heart of a Female, like one on the Stage; His Flute, and his Voice, and his Dancing are rare, And wherever they meet, they prevail with the Fair: But no quality Fop, Charms like Mr. _Hop_, Adorn'd on the Stage, and in _East-India_ Shop; So that each from _Miss Felton_, to ancient _Drake Joan_ is, Bemoaning the Death of the Player _Adonis_.
Yet _Adonis_ in spight of this new Abjuration, Did banter the lawful King of this great Nation: Who call'd God's anointed a foolish old Prig, Was both a base and unmannerly _Whigg_: But since he is Dead No more shall be said, For he in Repentance has laid down his Head; So I wish each Lady, who in mournful Tone is, In Charity Grieve for the Death of _Adonis_.
_Set by Mr._ JAMES TOWNSHEND, _Organist of_ LYN RIGES. _The Words by_ J.R.
Fly _Damon_ fly, 'tis Death to stay, Nor listen to the _Syren's_ Song; Nor hear her warbling Fingers play, That kills in Consort with her Tongue: Oft to despairing Shepherds Verse, Unmov'd she tunes the trembling Strings; Oft does some pitying Words rehearse, But little means the thing she Sings.
Cease on her lovely Looks to gaze, Nor court your Ruin in her Eyes; Her Looks too 's dangerous as her Face, At once engages and Destroys: Speak not if you'd avoid your Fate, For then she darts Resentment home; But fly, fly _Damon_ e'er too late, Or else be Deaf, be Blind, be Dumb.
MERCURY _to_ PARIS, _in the Prize Musick, Compos'd by Mr._ John Eccles.
Fear not Mortal, none shall harm thee, With this Sacred Rod I'll Charm thee; Freely gaze, and view all over, Thou mayst every Grace discover: Though a thousand Darts fly round thee, Fear not Mortal, none can Wound thee; _Though a thousand Darts fly round thee,_ _Fear not Mortal, none can Wound thee._
Born to surprize the World, Born to surprize the World, and teach the Great, The slippery Danger of exalted State; Victorious _Marlborough_, Victorious _Marlborough_, to Battle flies, Arm'd, Arm'd with new Lightning from bright _Anna's_ Eyes: Wonders, Wonders like these no former Age has seen, The Subjects Heroes, the Subjects Heroes, and a Saint the Queen.
In vain, in vain, in vain, in vain, in vain, In vain the God I ask, He'll ne'er remove the Dart; And still I love the pretty, pretty Boy, Altho', altho' he wound my Heart: Henceforth I'll be contented then, No more will I desire; No, no, no more, no, no, no more will I desire, To slight her whom I love so much, That but creates the Fire: Well might I expect the Fate, As well as any other; Since he ne'er spares the Gods themselves, Nor does he spare his Mother.