He. No, no, no not a Word, I can better afford You the Love, if you'll go Where your Mother don't know; For if she should be crost, All the Treasure is lost, And I conjure for Love in vain; The Circle you embrace Is where it must be done. She. Oh Lard, the Devil you'll raise, But catch me if you can.
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Let the dreadful Engines. In Orph. Britt.
A Song. Set by Mr. Henry Purcell.
LET the dreadful Engines of eternal Will,
The Thunder roar, and crooked Lightning kill
My Rage is hot, is hot, is hot as theirs, as fatal to,
And dares as horrid, and dares as horrid, horrid
Execution do.
Or let the frozen North its Rancour show,
Within my Breast far, far greater Tempests grow,
Despair's more cold, more cold than all the
Winds can blow:
Can nothing, can nothing warm me,
Can nothing, can nothing warm me,
yes, yes, yes, yes Lucinda's Eyes,
yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, Lucinda's Eyes;
yes, yes, yes, yes, yes Lucinda's Eyes,
there, there, there, there, there Etna,
there, there, there, there, there Vessuvio lies,
To furnish Hell with Flames, that mounting,
Mounting reach the Skies.
