was orignally sung in one of Tom D'Urfey's comedies of Don Quixote, acted in 1694 and 1696; and probably composed by himself. In the several stanzas, the author represents his pretty Mad-woman as, 1, sullenly mad; 2, mirthfully mad; 3, melancholy mad; 4, fantastically mad; and 5, stark mad. But this and No. XXII. are printed from D'Urfey's Pills to purge Melancholy, 1719, vol. i.

FROM rosie bowers where sleeps the god of love,
Hither, ye little wanton cupids, fly;
Teach me in soft melodious strains to move
With tender passion my heart's darling joy!
Ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice

To win dear Strephon, who my soul enjoys.

Or, if more influencing

Is to be brisk and airy,

5

With a step and a bound,

With a frisk from the ground,

10

I'll trip like any fai y.

As once on Ida dancing

Were three celestial bodies,

With an air and a face,

And a shape and a grace,

I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.

Ah! 'tis in vain ! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain!

Death and despair must end the fatal pain:

Cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rain,

15

Falls on my breast; bleak winds in tempests blow; 20
My veins all shiver and my fingers glow;

My pulse beats a dead march for lost repose,

And to a solid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze.

Or say, ye powers, my peace to crown,
Shall I thaw myself and drown
Among the foaming billows?

25

25

Increasing all with tears I shed,

On beds of ooze and crystal pillows,

Lay down, lay down my love-sick head?

30

No, no, I'll strait run mad, mad, mad!
That soon my heart will warm;
When once the sense is fled, is fled,
Love has no power to charm.
Wild thro' the woods I'll fly, I'll fly,
Robes, locks-shall thus-be tore !

A thousand, thousand times I'll dye

Ere thus, thus, in vain,—ere thus in vain adore.

35

XXI.

The Distracted Lover,

MAD SONG THE FIFTH,

was written by Henry Carey, a celebrated composer of music at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and author of several little theatrical Entertainments, which the reader may find enumerated in the Companion to the Play-house, &c. The sprightliness of this songster's

VOL. II.

F

fancy could not preserve him from a very melancholy catastrophe, which was effected by his own hand. In his Poems, 4to, Lond., 1729, may be seen another Mad Song of this author, beginning thus:

"Gods! I can never this endure,
Death alone must be my cure," &c.

I Go to the Elysian shade

Where sorrow ne'er shall wound me ;
Where nothing shall my rest invade,
But joy shall still surround me.

I fly from Celia's cold disdain,
From her disdain I fly;

She is the cause of all my pain,

For her alone I die.

Her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun,
When he but half his radiant course has run,
When his meridian glories gaily shine

And gild all nature with a warmth divine.

See yonder river's flowing tide,
Which now so full appears:

Those streams, that do so swiftly glide,

Are nothing but my tears.

5

10

15

There I have wept till I could weep no more,

And curst mine eyes, when they have wept their store;

Then, like the clouds that rob the azure main,

I've drain'd the flood to weep it back again.

20

Pity my pains,

Ye gentle swains!

Cover me with ice and snow,

I scorch, I burn, I flame, I glow!

Furies, tear me,

Quickly bear me

To the dismal shades below!

Where yelling and howling,
And grumbling and growling
Strike the ear with horrid woe.

25

30

This, like Number xx., was originally sung in one of D'Urfey's Comedies of Don Quixote (first acted about the year 1694), and was probably composed by that popular songster, who died Feb. 26, 1723.

This is printed in the "Hive, a Collection of Songs," 4 vols., 1721, 12mo, where may be found two or three other Mad Songs not admitted into these volumes.

I BURN, my brain consumes to ashes!
Each eye-ball too like lightning flashes!
Within my breast there glows a solid fire,
Which in a thousand ages can't expire!

Blow, blow, the winds' great ruler!

Bring the Po and the Ganges hither,
'Tis sultry weather;

Pour them all on my soul,

It will hiss like a coal,

But be never the cooler.

5

10

"Twas pride, hot as hell,

That first made me rebell;

From love's awful throne a curst angel I fell,

And mourn now my fate,

Which myself did create:

Fool, fool, that consider'd not when I was well!

15