With an air, and a face,

And a shape, and a grace,

I'll charm, like beauty's goddess.

15

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

21

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?
Increasing all with tears I shed,

On beds of ooze, and crystal pillows,
Lay down, lay down my love-sick head?

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

25

30

35

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

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 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.

5

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

10

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,

15

Are nothing but my tears.

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.

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,

20

25

Not all the hells,

Where Pluto dwells,

Can give such pain as I endure.

To some peaceful plain convey me,
On a mossey carpet lay me,
Fan me with ambrosial breeze,
Let me die, and so have ease!

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!

40

335

5

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.

'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!

Adieu! ye vain transporting joys!

Off ye vain fantastic toys!

That dress this face-this body-to allure!

Bring me daggers, poison, fire!

Since scorn is turn'd into desire.

All hell feels not the rage, which I, poor I, endure.

10

15

20