I.

Sinners arise, the Saviour's come,
And bleeds for wretched souls like you;
His mercy calls the rebels home,
Forgives their sins and loves them too.

II.

Come to the feast without delay,
Before the gospel call is o'er;
Embrace the blessed Lord to day,
Lest he should go, and call no more.

III.

Ten thousand souls have enter'd in,

To Mrs. Laura Dillon, now Lady Falkland.

Bacchus! to arms, the enemy's at hand,
Laura appears; stand to your glasses, stand;
The god of Love the god of Wine defies,
Behold him in full march in Laura's eyes:
Bacchus! to arms; and, to resist the dart,
Each with a faithful brimmer guard his heart.
Fly, Bacchus! fly, there's treason in the cup,
For Love comes pouring in with ev'ry drop;
I feel him in my heart, my blood, my brain;
Fly, Bacchus! fly, resistence is in vain,
Or craving quarter: crown a friendly bowl

I.

A plague take all such grumbling elves,
If they will rail, so be it;
Because we're happier than themselves,
They can't endure to see it.

For me, I never shall repine,
Let whate'er fate o'ertake us;
For love and Annette shall be mine,
Though all the world forsake us.

II.

Then, dear Annette, regard them not,
The hours shall pass on gaily,

A kernel from an apple's core
One day on either cheek I wore,
Lubin was plac'd on my right cheek,
That on my left did Hodge bespeak;

Hodge in an instant dropt to ground,
Sure token that his love's unsound,
But Lubin nothing could remove,
Sure token his is constant love.

II.

Last May I sought to find a snail,
That might my lover's name reveal,
Which finding, home I quickly sped,
And on the hearth the embers spread;

When, if my letters I can tell,

Say not you love, unlesse you do,
For lying will not profit you. Ladie:
Sir, I do love with love most true:
I will not love, unlesse't be you. Ra:
You say I lie, I say you lie, choose you whether,
But if we both lie, lets lie both together.

UPON A DRINKING-GLASS

The gods of Wine, and Wit, and Love, prepare,
With cheerful bowls, to celebrate the fair;
Love is enjoin'd to name his fav'rite toast,
And Hare's the goddess that delights him most:
Phaebus approves, and bids the trumpets sound,
And Bacchus, in a bumper, sends it round.

Written under a picture of the

COUNTESS OF SANDWICH DRAWN IN MAN'S HABIT ,

When Sandwich in her sex's garb we see,
The queen of Beauty then she seems to be;
Now fair Adonis in this male-disguise,
Or little Cupid with his mother's eyes:
No style of empire chang'd by this remove,
Who seem'd the goddess seems the god of Love.

Sheepheard, what's Love, I pray thee tell? Faustus .
It is that Fountaine, and that Well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell.
It is perhaps that sauncing bell,
That toules all into heaven or hell,
And this is Love as I heard tell. Meli .
Yet what is Love, I pre-thee say? Fau .
It is a worke on holy-day,
It is December match'd with May,
When lustie-bloods in fresh aray,
Heare ten moneths after of the play,
And this is Love, as I heare say. Meli .

Alas you know not what you bid me do!
He, who loves well, can ne'er distinguish, too.
To paint you, justly, asks cool reason — I
Thro' passion's faithless glass, should look too high.
If, when I trace you, absent, killing fair!
I catch the aguish influence of despair;
To search you, near, my soul cou'd ne'er endure,
Without dissolving quite, in love's hot calenture .

Hands that I loved long years ago —
Dear hands.
Caressive as the desert breezes blow,
They call to me across the sands,
Across the waste, wild prairie lands;
For once they were my own
To kiss and fondle and entwine
With mine.

My fragrant flow'rs the summer suns had sown,
Pink-petalled finger-tips
(Heaven to my lips!)
Sweet violet veins that trace
And keep the pressure of a lost embrace.
They were such white hands,
Pale as the new-lain snow on winter lands;
Dear hands of my delight,