re he goes, may you go, and I go_.

To the Soldiers so kind,
And so humbly inclin'd,
To wave his Applause gain'd at _Vigo_;
Yet so kind and so true,
He gave all Men their due,
_Then where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

We justly do own,
All the Honour that's won,
In _Flanders_, as well as at _Vigo_;
But our Subject and Theme,
Is of ORMOND's great Name,
_And where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

Then take off the Bowl,
To that Generous Soul,
That Commanded so bravely at _Vigo_;
And may ANNA approve,
Of our Duty and Love,
_And where he goes, may you go, and I go_.

_A Cure for Melancholy._

[Music]

Are you grown so Melancholy,
That you think on nought but Folly;
Are you sad,
Are you Mad,
Are you worse;
Do you think,
Want of Chink
Is a Curse:
Do you wish for to have,
Longer Life, or a Grave,
_Thus would I Cure ye_.

First I would have a Bag of Gold,
That should ten Thousand Pieces hold,
And all that,
In thy Hat,
Would I pour;
For to spend,
On thy Friend,
Or thy Whore:
For to cast away at Dice,
Or to shift you of your Lice,
_Thus would I Cure ye_.

Next I would have a soft Bed made,
Wherein a Virgin should be laid;
That would Play,
Any way
You'll devise;
That would stick
Like a Tick,
To your Thighs,
That would bill like a Dove,
Lye beneath or above,
_Thus would I Cure ye_.

Next that same Bowl, where _Jove_ Divine,
Drank _Nectar_ in, I'd fill with Wine;
That whereas,
You should pause,
You should quaff;
Like a _Greek_,
Till your Cheek,
To _Ceres_ and to _Venus_,
To _Bacchus_ and _Silenus_,
_Thus would I Cure ye_.

Last of all there should appear,
Seven Eunuchs sphere-like Singing here,
In the Praise,
Of those Ways,
Of delights;
_Venus_ can,
Use with Man,
In the Night;
When he strives to adorn,
_Vulcan's_ Head with a HORN,
_Thus would I Cure ye_.

But if not Gold, nor Woman can,
Nor Wine, nor Songs, make merry then;
Let the Batt,
Be thy Mate,
And the Owl;
Let a Pain,
In thy Brain,
Make thee Howl;
Let the Pox be thy Friend,
And the Plague work thy end,
_Thus I would Cure you_.

_To his fairest_ VALENTINE _Mrs._ A.