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Fly, Fly From My Sight. Fly Far Away

A DIALOGUE SUNG AT A PLAY, BY A EUNUCH BOY
AND A GIRL, 1719

SHE. Fly, fly from my sight, fly far away,

My scorn thou'lt only purchase by thy stay,
Away, away, away, fond Fool, away.

HE. Dear, dear Angel to

Here on this place I'll rooted grow,
Those pretty, pretty Eyes,

Have charmed me so,

I cannot, cannot stir, I cannot, cannot go.
SHE. Thou Silly, silly creature be advised,
And do not stay to be despised;

By all my Actions, thou may'st see,
My Heart can spare no room for thee.
HE. Why, why dost thou hate me, ah, confess
Thou sweet disposer of my Joys?

Why I can Kiss, and I can play,
And tell a thousand pretty tales;
Can Sing, can sing the livelong day,
If any other Talent fails.

SHE. Boast not thy Music, for I fear,
Thy singing Gift has cost thee dear;
Each warbling Linnet on the Tree
Has far a better Fate than thee:
For they Life's happy pleasures prove,
As they can sing, so they can Love.

HE. Why, so can I,

SHE. No, no, no poor Boy:

HE. Why, why cannot I?

SHE. The reason is, I only guess

There's something in thy Face and Voice,
That thou'rt not made like other Boys,
No, no poor Boy.

HE. Pray do but try, do but try, &c.

I know no reason, no reason why?

SHE. You know, you know, you know you Lie.

Would Ye Have a Young Virgin of
Fifteen Years

A SONG IN THE LAST ACT of the moderN PROPHETS, 1719

WOULD ye have a young Virgin of fifteen Years,
You must tickle her Fancy with sweets and dears,
Ever toying, and playing, and sweetly, sweetly,
Sing a Love Sonnet, and charm her Ears:

Wittily, prettily talk her down,

Chase her, and praise her, if fair or brown,

Sooth her, and smooth her,

And tease her, and please her,

And touch but her Smicket, and all's your own.

Do ye fancy a Widow well known in a Man?
With a front of Assurance come boldly on,
Let her rest not an Hour, but briskly, briskly,
Put her in mind how her Time steals on;
Rattle and prattle although she frown,
Rowse her, and towse her from Morn to Noon,
Shew her some Hour y'are able to grapple,
Then get but her Writings, and all's your own.

Do ye fancy a Punk of a Humour free,
That's kept by a Fumbler of Quality,

You must rail at her Keeper, and tell her, tell her
Pleasure's best Charm is Variety,

Swear her much fairer than all the Town,
Try her, and ply her when Cully's gone,
Dog her, and jog her,

And meet her, and treat her,

And kiss with two Guineas, and all's your own.

"In a Cellar at Sodom"

A CATCH FROM PILLS TO PURGE MELANCHOLY, 1719

In a Cellar at Sodom, at the Sign of the T-,

Two Buxom young Harlots were drinking with L—;
Some say they were his Daughters, no matter for that,
They're resolved they would souse their old Dad with a Pot;
All flustered and bousie, the Doting old Sot,

As great as a Monarch between 'em was got;
Till the Eldest and Wisest thus opened the Plot,

Pray shew us dear Daddy how we were begot;

Godzoukes, you young Jades, 'twas the first Oath I wot,
The Devil of a Serpent this Humour has taught;
No matter, they cried, you shall Pawn for the shot,
Unless you will shew us how we were begot

"A Gentle Breeze from the
Lavinian Sea"

FROM PILLS TO PURGE MELANCHOLY, 1719

A GENTLE Breeze from the Lavinian Sea,

Was gliding o'er the Coast of Sicily;

When lulled with soft Repose, a prostrate Maid,
Upon her bended Arm had raised her Head:

Her Soul was all tranquil and smooth with Rest,
Like the harmonious Slumbers of the Blest.
Wrapped up in Silence, innocent she lay,

And pressed the Flow'rs with Touch as soft as they.

My thoughts in gentlest Sounds she did impart,
Heightened by all the Graces of that Art;
And as I sung, I grasped her yielding Thighs,
Till broken Accents faltered into Sighs:
I kissed and wished, and foraged all her store,
Yet wallowing in the Pleasure, I was poor;
No kind Relief my Agonies could ease,
I groaned, and cursed Religious Cruelties.

The trembling Nymph all o'er Confusion lay,
Her melting Looks in sweet Disorder play;
Her Colour varies, and her Breath's oppressed,
And all her Faculties are dispossessed,
At last impetuously her Pulses move,
She gives a mighty Loose to stifled Love;

Then murmurs in a soft Complaint, and cries,
Alas! and thus in soft Convulsions dies.

"Celemene, Pray Tell Me"

FROM PILLS TO PURGE MELANCHOLY [1719], WITH MUSIC; SET BY

MR. HENRY PURCELL, SUNG BY A BOY AND GIRL AT THE PLAYHOUSE

HE. Celemene, pray tell me,

Pray, pray tell me, Celemene,

When those pretty, pretty, pretty Eyes I see,

Why my Heart beats, beats, beats, beats in my Breast,
Why, why it will not, it will not, why, why, it will not
let me rest:

Why this trembling, why this trembling too all o'er?
Pains I never, pains I never, never, never felt before:
And when thus I touch, when thus I touch your hand,
Why I wish, I wish, I wish, I was a Man?
SHE. How should I know more than you?
Yet would be a Woman too.

When you wash your self and play,

I methinks could look all day;

Nay, just now, nay, just now am pleased, am pleased

so well,

Should should you
you,

Should you, should you

kiss me, I won't tell,

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No, no I won't tell, no, no I won't tell, no, no I won't

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HE. Tho' I could do that all day,
And desire no better play:

Sure, sure in Love there's something more,
Which makes Mamma so big, so big before.
SHE. Once by chance I heard it named,

Don't ask what, don't ask what, for I'm ashamed:
Stay but till you're past Fifteen,

Then you'll know, then, then, you'll know what 'tis
I mean.

Then you'll know what, then you'll know what 'tis

I mean.

HE. However, lose not present bliss,

But now we're alone, let's kiss:

But now we're alone, let's kiss, let's kiss.

SHE. My breasts do so heave, so heave, so heave,

HE. My heart does so pant, pant, pant;

SHE. There's Something, something, something more we want,

There's Something, something, something more we

want.

An Epithalamium on the Marriage of
the Honourable Charles Leigh

FROM PILLS TO PURGE MELANCHOLY, 1719
DRAW, draw the Curtain, fie, make haste,
The panting Lovers long to be alone,
The precious Time no more in talking waste,
There's better Business going on;

Our Absence will their Wishes crown,
The next swift Moment's not too soon,
Our artful Song sounds like a Drone,

For now all Music, but their own,
Is harsh, and out of Tune.

Now Love inflames the Bridegroom's Heart,
How weak, how poor a Charmer is the Flute;
And when the Bride's fair Eyes her Wishes dart,
How dully sounds the warbling Lute.

If this Divine, harmonious Bliss

Attends each happy Marriage Day,

Who such a blessed State would miss,
And such a charming Tune as this,
Who would not learn to play?

Oh, Joy too fierce to be exprest,

Thou sweet Atoner of Life's greatest Pain,

By thee are Men with Love's dear Treasure blest,
And Women still by losing gain.

Smile then divine, propitious Pow'rs,
Upon this Pair let Blessings flow,
Let Care mix with their Sweets, not Sours,
But may succeeding Days and Hours
Be charming all as now.

A Dialogue Between a Town Spark and
His Miss

FROM PILLS To purge melaNCHOLY, 1719

SHE. Did you not promise me when you lay by me,
That you would marry me, can you deny me?
HE. If I did promise thee, 'twas but to try thee,
Call up your Witnesses, else I defie thee.

SHE. Ah, who would trust you men that swear and vow so,
Born only to deceive, how can you do so?

HE. If we can swear and lie, you can dissemble,

And then to hear the Lie, would make one tremble.

SHE. Had I not loved, you had found a Denial,
My tender Heart, alas, was but too real;
HE. Should a new Shower increase the Flood,
Too soon would overflow.

HE. Real I know you were, I've often tried ye,
Real to forty more Lovers beside me.

SHE. If thousands lov'd me, where was my transgression,
You were the only He, e'er got Possession?

HE. Thou could'st talk prettily, e'er thou could'st go, Child:
But I'm too old and wise to be shamed so, Child.
SHE. Tho' y'are so cruel you'll never believe me,
You do but take the Child, all I forgive thee.

HE. Send your Kid home to me, I will take care on't,
If't has the Mother's Gifts, 'twill prove a rare one.

"To Charming Caelia's Arms I Flew"

FROM PILLS TO PURGE MELANCHOLY, 1719
To Charming Caelia's Arms I flew,
And there all Night I feasted,
No God such Transport ever knew,
Or Mortal ever tasted.

Lost in the sweet tumultuous Joy,
And bless'd beyond Expressing,
How can your Slave, my Fair, said I,
Reward so great a Blessing?

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