The shadows of the gaslit wings
Come softly crawling down our way,
Before the curtain some one sings,
The music sounds from far away;
I stand beside you in the wings.

Prying and indiscreet, the lights
Illumine, if you chance to move,
The prince's dress, the yellow tights,
That fit your figure like a glove:
You shrink a little from the lights.

Divinely rosy rouged, your face
Smiles, with its painted little mouth,
Half tearfully, a quaint grimace;
The charm and pathos of your youth
Mock the mock roses of your face.

To Minnie Cunningham.

Skirts like the amber petals of a flower,
A primrose dancing for delight
In some enchantment of a bower
That rose to wizard music in the night;

A rhythmic flower whose petals pirouette
In delicate circles, fain to follow
The vague aerial minuet,
The mazy dancing of the swallow;

A flower's caprice, a bird's command
Of all the airy ways that lie
In light along the wonder-land,
The wonder-haunted loneliness of sky:

So, in the smoke-polluted place,
Where bird or flower might never be,

To Peppina.

The little painted angels flit,
See, down the narrow staircase, where
The pink legs flicker over it!

Blonde, and bewigged, and winged with gold,
The shining creatures of the air
Troop sadly, shivering with cold.

The gusty gaslight shoots a thin
Sharp finger over cheeks and nose
Rouged to the colour of the rose.

All wigs and paint, they hurry in:
Then, let their radiant moment be
The footlights' immortality!

I.

A Man, a Woman, Sir Roger.

W OULD'ST thou ken Nature in her better part?
Go, search the cots and lodges of the hind;
If they have any, it is rough-made art,
In them you see the naked form of kind;
Haveth your mind a liking of a mind?
Would it ken everything, as it might be?
Would it hear phrase of vulgar from the hind,
Without wiseacre words and knowledge free?
If so, read this, which I disporting penned,
If naught beside, its rhyme may it commend.

II.

Nygelle.

Sprites of the blest, the pious Nigel said,
Pour out your pleasure on my father's head.

I.

Richard of Lion's heart to fight is gone,
Upon the broad sea do the banners gleam;
The amenused nations are aston
To ken so large a fleet, so fine, so breme.
The barkes heads do cut the polished stream,
Waves sinking, waves upon the hard oak rise;
The water-slughorns, with a swotye cleme,
Strive with the dinning air, and reach the skies.
Sprites of the blest, on golden thrones a-stead,

I.

W HEN England, smoking from her deadly wound,
From her galled neck did pluck the chains away,
Knowing her lawful sons fall all around,
(Mighty they fell, 'twas Honour led the fray).
Then in a dale, by eve's dark surcote gray,
Two lonely shepherds did abrodden fly,
(The rustling leaf doth their white hearts affray),

TO BE SUNG BY MRS. BARTHELEMON AND MASTER CHENEY .

A WAY to the woodlands, away!
The shepherds are forming a ring
To dance to the honour of May,
And welcome the pleasures of Spring.
The shepherdess labours a grace,
And shines in her Sunday's array,
And bears in the bloom of her face
The charms and the beauties of May.
Away to the woodlands, away!
The shepherds are forming a ring, &c.

Away to the woodlands, away!
And join with the amorous train:

A BACCHANALIAN

SUNG BY MR. REINHOLD

B ACCHUS , ever smiling power,
Patron of the festive hour!
Here thy genuine nectar roll
To the wide capacious bowl,
While gentility and glee
Make these gardens worthy thee.

Bacchus, ever mirth and joy,
Laughing, wanton, happy boy!
Here advance thy clustered crown,
Send thy purple blessings down;
With the Nine to please conspire,
Wreathe the ivy round the lyre.

STREPHON .

L UCY , since the knot was tied,
Which confirmed thee Strephon's bride,
All is pleasure, all is joy,
Married love can never cloy;
Learn, ye rovers, learn from this,
Marriage is the road to bliss.

LUCY .

Whilst thy kindness every hour
Gathers pleasure with its power,
Love and tenderness in thee
Must be happiness to me.
Learn, ye rovers, learn from this,
Marriage is substantial bliss.

BOTH .

Godlike Hymen, ever reign,

ACT II. Scene I.

B ACCHUS , with his bowl on his head .

Air.

A LAS , alas! how fast
I feel my spirits sinking;
The joys of life are past,
I've lost the power of drinking.
'Egad, I find at last
The heavenly charms of tinking,
And in the sound I cast
The miseries of thinking.

Recitative.

I'm plaguy ill — in devilish bad condition —
What shall I do? — I'll send for a physician:
But then the horrid fees — aye, there's the question —