L.

[Music]

Come pretty Birds present your Lays,
And learn to chaunt a Goddess Praise;
Ye Wood-Nymphs let your Voices be,
Employ'd to serve her Deity:
And warble forth, ye Virgins Nine,
_Some Musick to my_ Valentine.

Her Bosom is Loves Paradise,
There is no Heav'n but in her Eyes;
She's chaster than the Turtle-Dove,
And fairer than the Queen of Love;
Yea, all Perfections do combine,
To beautifie my Valentine.

She's Nature's choicest Cabinet,
Where Honour, Beauty, Worth and Wit,
Are all united in her Breast,
The Graces claim an Interest:
All Vertues that are most Divine,
Shine clearest in my Valentine.

_A_ BALLAD,

_Or_, COLLIN'S _Adventure._

[Music]

As _Collin_ went from his Sheep to unfold,
In a Morning of _April_, as grey as 'twas cold,
In a Thicket he heard a Voice it self spread;
Which was, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

He peep'd in the Bushes, and spy'd where there lay
His Mistress, whose Countenance made _April May_;
But in her looks some sadness was read,
Crying O, O, _I am almost dead_.

He rush'd in to her, and cry'd what's the matter,
Ah! _Collin_, quoth she, why will you come at her,
Who by the false Swain, hath often been misled,
For which O, O, _I am almost dead_.

He turn'd her Milk-pail, and there down he sat,
His Hands stroak'd his Beard, on his Knee lay his Coat,
But, O, still _Mopsa_ cry'd, before ought was said,
_Collin_, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

No more, quoth stout _Collin_! I ever was true,
Thou gav'st me a Handkerchief all hemm'd with Blue:
A Pin-box I gave thee, and a Girdle so Red,
Yet still she cry'd, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

Delaying, quoth she, hath made me thus Ill,
For I never fear'd _Sarah_ that dwelt at the Mill,
Since in the Ev'ning late her Hogs thou hast fed,
For which, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

_Collin_ then chuck'd her under the Chin,
Cheer up for to love thee I never will lin,
Says she, I'll believe it when the Parson has read,
'Till then, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

Uds boars, quoth _Collin_, I'll new my shon,
And e'er the Week pass, by the Mass it shall be done:
You might have done this before, then she said,
But now, O, O, _I am almost dead_.

He gave her a twitch that quite turn'd her round,
And said, I'm the truest that e'er trod on Ground,
Come settle thy Milk-Pail fast on thy Head,
No more O, O, _I am almost dead_.

Why then I perceive thoul't not leave me in the Lurch,
I'll don my