Four of the choicest New Songs, as they are sung at Court;  Written by a person of Quality, named E. G. 

A Song.  
YOung John the Gardner having lately got  
A very rich Garden plot,  
Bragging to Joan, quoth he, so rich a ground  
For millions cannot in the World be found,  
For 'tis a good ground:  
That's a damned lie, quoth Joan,  
For I can tell a place that does your Garden far excel,  
In the midst there stands a Well,  
Where's that, says John, between my Legs, says  
For there's a Plant well set, which flourished all the year,  
And ne'er will decay, thou needst not to fear;  
For if it drops I such an art have got,  
To raise it, that my fertile Garden-plot  
Will then restore itself as at first,  
In better ground no plant was ever thrust.  
Say so, says John, then open thy gay green Gate,  
I have a choice plant to set without fate.  
Prithee John be quiet, and let my Garden go free,  
For I can have better Plants than any thou canst give me.  
Nay, nay, my Jone, you must not now dispute,  
Let me but graft, and you shall have the fruit.   

Another Excellent New Song.  
THou art fair and cruel too,  
I am a Maid what shall I do;  
To purchase my desire,  
Sometimes thine eyes do me invite,  
But when I venture kill me quite,  
Yet ' still in thee's the fire,  
Oft have I thought my Love to quell,  
And try its furies to repel,  
Since I no hope can find,  
But when I think of having thee,  
My heart as much does toture me,  
As 'twould rejoice, if kind.  
Thus have I loved, though hardly used,  
And when I proffer am refused.  
And I'll suffer more, by coy, be cruel, come do thy worst  
Though for thy sake I am accursed,  
Yet nevertheless i'll love thee more,  
Whom I must and will adore.   

A New Love Song.  

THe night her blackest Sables wore,  
All gloomy were the Skies,  
And glittering Stars there were more  
Than those in Celia's Eyes,  
When at her Father's Gate I Knocked,  
Where I had often been,  
And shrouded only in her Smock,  
The fair one let me in.   

Fast locked within my close embrace  
She trembling lay,  
Ashamed her swelling Breast,  
And gave me way;  
She's fair and pretty I have said,  
My eager passion I obeyed,  
Resolved the Fort to win,  
And her fond heart was soon betrayed  
To yield and let me in.   

None but the envying God's Conquest,  
Or Lovers blest,  
As I to what degrees of happiness,  
We raised our equal joy,  
The mistress of love ran o'er,  
We did anew begin,  
And she blessed that day  
That e'er she let me in.  
But long the feasted thefts of Love  
We could not thus conceal,  
The lovely maid does pregnant prove,  
Which must our joys reveal,  
She wept and sighed,  
Yet still if 'twere to do again,  
She would not curse the fatal hour  
That e'er she let me in.   

But who could see her charming tears,  
Her sorrows without art,  
Her long-wished fate with fears,  
And not resign his heart;  
We married and concealed the Crime,  
So all was well again,  
And now she thanks the blessed hour,  
That e'er she let me in.    

Another New Love Song.  
SEE what a Conquest love has made,  
Beneath the Myrtles amorous shade,  
The charming fair Corinna lies,  
All melting in desire,  
Quenching in tears those flaming Eyes,  
That set the world on fire,  
With fervent hot desire.  
What cannot Tears and Beauty do,  
The youth by chance stood by and knew,  
For whom those Crystal eyes did flow,  
And though he ne'er before  
To her Eyes brightest rage did bow,  
Weeps too, and does adore.  
So when the Heavens do shine clear,  
Guilded with gaudy light appear,  
Each craggy Rock, and every stone,  
Their native rigour keep,  
But when in Rain the Clouds fall down,  
The hardest Marbles weep.    

LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by A. Chamberlain, in Red-B●ll-Play-house yard, over against the Pound St. John-street.