Mars. Blest be the happy Hour the News was brought,
Mammon. Blest be the Great Eugene that bravely fought,
Mars. The happy Hour,
Mammon. The Great Eugene,
Mars. The happy Hour,
Mammon. The Great Eugene;
Blest be the happy Hour, &c.
[Both sing the two last Lines.]
Mammon Now Sons of Art, ye tuneful Muses call,
and And sing the Gallick Tyrant's Fall,
Mars In soaring Alts his Grand Ambition shew,
together. Then let your Bases sink him down as low:
In Consort next Celestial Voices raise,
And be the Chorus still, our God-like Generals Praise;
In Consort next, &c.
[Here's a General Chorus of Voices and Instruments.]
Mars. By him, to my Prophetick Soul appears
A lasting Joy, that crowns succeeding Years,
The valiant, the successful Deeds
Of him, and the Renown'd he leads
Will be eterniz'd, to the utmost Shore,
Mammon. Then to regale the Chiefs, take all my Store,
All, all my Wealth, is a Reward too poor.
Another Movement with Flutes
Sweet Peace like Paradice is blooming,
And Halcyon Days in Prospect coming;
The rural Swains, with War affrighted,
With rosie Nymphs shall sing delighted;
And whilst their harmless Flocks are bleating,
Soft Tales of Love be still repeating.
Mars. But first bring Gallia down,
Mammon. And fix the Spanish Crown:
Mars. From Bourbon keep the Swede,
Mammon. Drive Philip from Madrid:
