Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy, Vol. 5 of 6

by Unknown

VOL. V.

---

The Four-Legg’d Elder: Or a Horrible
Relation of a Dog and an Elder’s Maid.

By Sir John Burtonhead.

[[Listen]]

LL Christians and Lay-Elders too,
For Shame amend your Lives;
I’ll tell you of a Dog-trick now,
Which much concerns you Wives:
An Elder’s Maid near Temple-Bar,
(Ah! what a Quean was she?)
Did take an ugly Mastiff Cur,
Where Christians use to be.
Help House of Commons, House of Peers,
Oh now or never help!
Th’ Assembly hath not sat Four Years,
Yet hath brought forth a Whelp.
One Evening late she stept aside,
Pretending to fetch Eggs;
And there she made her self a Bride,
To one that had four Legs:
Her Master heard a Rumblement,
And wonder she did tarry;
Not dreaming (without his consent)
His Dog would ever Marry.
Help House of Commons, &c.
He went to peep, but was afraid,
And hastily did run,
To fetch a Staff to help his Maid,
Not knowing what was done:
He took his Ruling Elders Cane,
And cry’d out help, help, here;
For Swash our Mastiff, and poor Jane,
Are now fight Dog, fight Bear.
Help House of Commons, &c.
But when he came he was full sorry,
For he perceiv’d their Strife;
That according to the Directory,
They Two were Dog and Wife:
Ah! (then said he) thou cruel Quean,
Why hast thou me beguil’d?
I wonder Swash was grown so lean,
Poor Dog he’s almost spoil’d.
Help House of Commons, &c.
I thought thou hadst no Carnal Sense,
But what’s in our Lasses:
And could have quench’d thy Cupiscence,
According to the Classes:
But all the Parish see it plain,
Since thou art in this pickle;
Thou art an Independent Quean,
And lov’st a Conventicle.
Help House of Commons, &c.
Alas now each Malignant Rogue,
Will all the World perswade;
That she that’s Spouse unto a Dog,
May be an Elder’s Maid:
They’ll jeer us if abroad we stir,
Good Master Elder stay;
Sir, of what Classis is your Cur?
And then what can we say?
Help House of Commons, &c.
They’ll many graceless Ballads sing,
Of a Presbyterian;
That a Lay Elder is a thing
Made up half Dog, half Man:
Out, out, said he, (and smote her down)
Was Mankind grown so scant?
There’s scarce another Dog in Town,
Had took the Covenant.
Help House of Commons, &c.
Then Swash began to look full grim,
And Jane did thus reply;
Sir, you thought nought too good for him,
You fed your Dog too high:
’Tis true he took me in the lurch,
And leap’d into my Arms;
But (as I hope to come at Church)
I did your Dog no harm.
Help House of Commons, &c.
Then she was brought to Newgate Gaol,
And there was Naked stripp’d;
They whipp’d her till the Cords did fail,
As Dogs us’d to be whipp’d:
Poor City Maids shed many a Tear,
When she was lash’d and bang’d;
And had she been a Cavalier,
Surely she had been hang’d.
Help House of Commons, &c.
Hers was but Fornication found,
For which she felt the Lash:
But his was Bugg’ry presum’d,
Therefore they hanged Swash:
What will become of Bishops then,
Or Independency?
For now we find both Dogs and Men,
Stand up for Presbytry.
Help House of Commons, &c.
She might have took a Sow-gelder,
With Synod-men good store,
But she would have a Lay-Elder,
With Two Legs and Two more:
Go tell the Assembly of Divines,
Tell Adoniram blue;
Tell Burgess, Marshall, Case and Vines,
Tell Now-and-Anon too.
Help House of Commons, &c.
Some say she was a Scottish Girl,
Or else (at least) a Witch;
But she was born in Colchester,
Was ever such a Bitch:
Take heed all Christian Virgins now,
The Dog-Star now prevails;
Ladys beware your Monkeys too,
For Monkeys have long Tails.
Help House of Commons, &c.
Bless King and Queen, and send us Peace,
As we had Seven Years since:
For we remember no Dog-days,
While we enjoy’d our Prince:
Bless sweet Prince Charles, Two Dukes, Three Girls,
Lord save his Majesty;
Grant that his Commons, Lords, and Earls,
May lead such lives as He.
Help House of Commons, &c.

Plain Proof Ruin’d:
Or, a Grand CHEAT Discover’d.

[[Listen]]

BOld Impudent Fuller invented a Plot,
And all to discover the Devil knows what;
About a young Bantling strangely begot.
Which no body can deny.
The better to cheat both the Fools and the Wise,
He Impos’d on a Nation a Hundred of Lies;
That none but a Knight of the Post could devise.
Which no body can deny.
He tells us he had the Honour to peep,
In the Warming-pan where the Welch Infant did sleep;
And found out a Plot which was Damnable deep,
Which no Body can believe.
Then to the Wise Senate he suddenly went,
Where he told all the Lies that he then could invent,
For which he was Voted a Rogue by consent,
Which no Body can deny.
And tho’ he was Punish’d for that his Offence,
He has almost forgot it, it was so long since,
Therefore the whole Game he began to Commence,
Which no Body can deny.
Then he to the Lords his bold Letters did send,
And told the high Peers, that the Plot he could mend,
And make it as plain, as he first did pretend,
Which no Body can deny.
He told them his Witnesses were mighty Men,
That wou’d come to the Town, tho’ the Devil knows when,
And make William Fuller once famous agen,
Which no Body can deny.
The Lords they were Generous, Noble and Kind,
And allowed him Freedom his ’Squires to find,
The which he will do when the Devil is Blind,
Which no Body can deny.
So the Peers they declared him a scandalous Sot,
And none thinks him fit to manage a Plot,
If Newgate and Tyburn does fall to his Lot,
There’s no Body will deny.
They gave him no more time than himself did require,
To find out his Jones and the wandering ’Squire,
But the time being come, they were never the nigher,
Which no Body can deny.
The brave House of Commons next for him did send,
To hear what the Block-headly Fool wou’d pretend,
Who humbly request, that they wou’d him befriend,
Which no Body can deny.
One day he declar’d they were near London Town,
But the very next Day into Wales they were flown,
Such nimble Heel’d Witnessess never were known,
Which no Body can deny.
When being Examin’d about his sham Plot,
He answer’d as though he had minded them not,
Perhaps the Young Rogue had his Lesson forgot,
Which no Body can deny.
But after some Study and impudent Tales,
Ask’d for a Commission to march into Wales,
And be Chang’d to a Herse, as Rogues goes to Gaols,
Which no Body can deny.
But seeing his Impudence still to abound,
To go search for the Men who were not to be found,
They immediately sent him back to Fleet Pound,
Which no Body can deny.
From the Fleet to the Cart may he quickly advance
To learn the true Steps of old Oates’s New Dance,
And something beside, or it is a great Chance,
Which no Body can deny.
He has made it a Trade to be doing of Wrong,
In Swearing, and Lying, and Cheating so long,
For all his Life time, he’s been at it ding dong,
Which no Body can deny.
Welch Taffy he raves and crys Splutterdenails,
He’s abused hur Highness with Lies and with Tales,
Hur will hang hur if e’er hur can catch hur in Wales,
Which no Body will deny.

---

The Woman Warrior.

Who liv’d in Cow-cross near West-Smithfield; who changing her Apparrel, entered her self on Board in Quality of a Soldier, and sailed to Ireland, where she Valiantly behaved her self, particularly at the Siege of Cork, where she lost her Toes, and received a Mortal Wound in her Body, of which she since Died in her return to London.

[[Listen]]

LEt the Females attend,
To the Lines which are penn’d,
For here I shall give a Relation;
Of a Young marry’d Wife,
Who did venture her Life,
For a Soldier, a Soldier she went from the Nation.
She her Husband did leave,
And did likewise receive
Her Arms, and on Board she did enter;
And right valiantly went,
With a Resolution bent,
To the Ocean, the Ocean her Life there to venture.
Yet of all the Ships Crew,
Not a Seaman that knew,
They then had a Woman so near ’em;
On the Ocean so deep,
She her Council did keep,
Ay, and therefore, and therefore she never did fear ’em.
She was valiant and bold,
And would not be controul’d,
By any that dare to offend her;
If a Quarrel arose,
She would give him dry Blows,
And the Captain, the Captain did highly commend her.
For he took her to be,
Then of no mean Degree,
A Gentleman’s Son or a ’Squire;
With a Hand white and fair,
There was none could compare,
Which the Captain, the Captain did often admire.
On the Irish Shore,
Where the Cannons did roar,
With many stout Lads she was landed;
There her Life to expose,
She lost two of her Toes,
And in Battle, in Battle was daily commended.
Under Grafton she fought,
Like a brave Hero stout,
And made the proud Tories retire;
She in Field did appear,
With a Heart void of Fear,
And she bravely, she bravely did charge and give fire.
While the battering Balls,
Did assault the strong Walls,
Of Cork and the sweet Trumpets sounded;
She did bravely advance,
Where by unhappy Chance,
This young Female, young Female alass she was wounded.
At the End of the Fray,
Still she languishing lay,
Then over the Ocean they brought her;
To her own Native Shore,
Now they ne’er knew before,
That a Woman, a Woman had been in that Slaughter.
What she long had conceal’d,
Now at length she reveal’d,
That she was a Woman that ventur’d;
Then to London with care,
She did straitways repair,
But she dy’d, oh she dy’d e’er the City she enter’d.
When her Parents beheld,
They with Sorrow was fill’d,
For why they did dearly adore her:
In her Grave now she lies,
’Tis not watery Eyes,
No nor Sighing, nor Sighing that e’er can restore her.

---

A Medly, Compos’d out of several SONGS.

[[Listen]]

STate and Ambition, all Joy to great Cæsar,
Sawney shall ne’er be my Colly my Cow;
All Hail to the Shades, all Joy to the Bridegroom,
And call upon Dobbin with Hi, Je, ho.
Remember ye Whigs, what was formerly done;
And Jenny come tye my bonny Cravat,
If I live to grow old for I find I go down,
For I cannot come every Day to Wooe.
Jove in his Throne was a Fumbler, Tom Farthing,
And Jockey and Jenny together did lie;
Oh Mother Roger: Boys, fill us a Bumper,
For why will ye die my poor Cælia, ah why?
Hark! how thundring Cannons do roar,
Ladies of London both wealthy and fair;
Charon make hast and Ferry me over,
Lilli burlero bullen a lah.
Chloris awake, Four-pence-half-penny-farthing,
Give me the Lass that is true Country bred;
Like John of Gaunt I walk in Covent-Garden,
I am a Maid and a very good Maid:
Twa bonny Lads was Sawney and Jockey,
The Delights of the Bottle and Charms of good Wine;
Wading the Water so deep my sweet Moggy,
Cold and Raw, let it run in the right Line.
Old Obadiah sings Ave-Maria,
Sing Lulla-by-Baby with a Dildo;
The old Woman and her Cat sat by the Fire,
Now this is my Love d’y’ like her ho?
Old Charon thus preached to his Pupil Achilles,
And under this Stone here lies Gabriel John;
Happy was I at the fight of Fair Phillis,
What should a Young Woman do with an old Man?
There’s old Father Peters with his Romish Creatures,
There was an old Woman sold Pudding and Pies,
Cannons with Thunder shall fill them with Wonder,
I once lov’d a Lass that had bright rowling Eyes:
There’s my Maid Mary, she does mind her Dairy,
I took to my Heels and away I did run;
And bids him prepare to be happy to Morrow,
Alass! I don’t know the right end of a Gun.
My Life and Death does lye both in your Power,
And every Man to his Mind, Shrewsbury for me;
On the Bank of a Brook as I sat Fishing,
Shall I Die a Maid and never Married be:
Uds bobs let Oliver now be forgotten,
Joan is as good as my Lady in the Dark;
Cuckolds are Christians Boys all the World over,
And here’s a full Bumper to Robin John Clark.

---

The Trooper Watering his Nagg.

[[Listen]]

THere was an old Woman liv’d under a Hill,
Sing Trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo;
She had good Beer and Ale for to sell,
Ho, ho, had she so, had she so, had she so;
She had a Daughter her name was Siss,
Sing Trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo;
She kept her at Home for to welcome her Guest,
Ho, ho, did she so, did she so, did she so.
There came a Trooper riding by,
Sing trolly, &c.
He call’d for Drink most plentifully,
Ho, ho, did he so, &c.
When one Pot was out he call’d for another,
Sing trolly, &c.
He kiss’d the Daughter before the Mother,
Ho, ho, did he so, &c.
And when Night came on to Bed they went,
Sing trolly, &c.
It was with the Mother’s own Consent,
Ho, ho, was it so, &c.
Quoth she what is this so stiff and warm,
Sing trolly &c.
’Tis Ball my Nag he will do you no harm,
Ho, ho, wont he so, &c.
But what is this hangs under his Chin,
Sing trolly, &c.
’Tis the Bag he puts his Provender in,
Ho, ho, is it so, &c.
Quoth he what is this? Quoth she ’tis a Well,
Sing trolly, &c.
Where Ball your Nag may drink his fill,
Ho, ho, may he so, &c.
But what if my Nag should chance to slip in,
Sing trolly, &c.
Then catch hold of the Grass that grows on the brim,
Ho, ho, must I so, &c.
But what if the Grass should chance to fail,
Sing trolly, &c.
Shove him in by the Head, pull him out by the Tail,
Ho, ho, must I so, &c.

A Trip to the Jubilee. The Tune by Mr. R. Loe.

[[Listen]]

COme bring us Wine in plenty,
We’ve Money enough to spend;
I hate to see the Pots empty,
A Man cannot Drink to’s Friend:
Then drawer bring up more Wine,
And merrily let it pass;
We’ll drink till our Faces do shine,
He that wont may look like an Ass:
And we’ll tell him so to his Face,
If he offers to baulk his Glass,
For we defy all such dull Society.
’Tis drinking makes us merry,
And Mirth diverts all Care;
A Song of hey down derry,
Is better than heavy Air:
Make ready quickly my Boys,
And fill up your Glasses higher;
For we’ll present with Huzzas,
And merrily all give fire;
Since drinking’s our desire,
And friendship we admire,
For here we’ll stay, ne’er call Drawer what’s to pay.

---

The Good Fellow.

[[Listen]]

LEt’s be jolly, fill our Glasses,
Madness ’tis for us to think,
How the World is rul’d by Asses,
That o’ersway the Wise with Chink:
Let not such vain Thoughts oppress us,
Riches prove to them a Snare;
We are all as rich as Crœsus,
Drink your Glasses, take no care.
Wine will make us fresh as Roses,
And our Sorrows all forgot;
Let us fuddle well our Noses,
Drink ourselves quite out of Debt:
When grim Death is looking for us,
Whilst we’re singing o’er our Bowls;
Bacchus joyning in our Chorus,
Death depart, here’s none but Souls.

---

Jockey’s Escape from DUNDEE; and the
Parsons Daughter whom he had Mow’d.

[[Listen]]

WHere gott’st thou the Haver-mill bonack?
Blind Booby can’st thou not see;
Ise got it out of the Scotch-man’s Wallet,
As he lig lousing him under a Tree:
Come fill up my Cup, come fill up my Can,
Come Saddle my Horse, and call up my Man;
Come open the Gates, and let me go free,
And shew me the way to bonny Dundee.
For I have neither robbed nor stole,
Nor have I done any injury;
But I have gotten a Fair Maid with Child,
The Minister’s Daughter of bonny Dundee:
Come fill up my Cup, come fill up my Can,
Come saddle my Horse and call up my Man,
Come open the Gates and let me go free,
And Ise gang no more to bonny Dundee.
Altho’ Ise gotten her Maiden-head,
Geud feth Ise given her mine in lieu;
For when at her Daddy’s Ise gang to Bed,
Ise mow’d her without any more to do?
Ise cuddle her close, and gave her a Kiss,
Pray tell now where is the harm of this,
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
And Ise gang no more to bonny Dundee.
All Scotland ne’er afforded a Lass,
So bonny and blith as Jenny my dear;
Ise gave her a Gown of Green on the Grass,
But now Ise no longer must tarry here:
Then saddle my Nag that’s bonny and gay,
For now it is time to gang hence away,
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
She’s ken me no more to bonny Dundee.
In Liberty still I reckon to Reign,
For why I have done no honest Man wrong;
The Parson may take his Daughter again,
For she’ll be a Mammy before it is long:
And have a young Lad or Lass of my breed,
Ise think I have done her a generous deed;
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
For Ise gang no more to bonny Dundee.
Since Jenny the Fair was willing and kind,
And came to my Arms with a ready good will;
A token of love Ise left her behind,
Thus I have requited her kindness still:
Tho’ Jenny the Fair I often had mow’d,
Another may reap the harvest I sow’d,
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
She’s ken me no more to bonny Dundee.
Her Daddy would have me to make her my Bride,
But have and to hold I ne’er could endure;
From bonny Dundee this Day I will ride,
It being a place not safe and secure:
Then Jenny farewel my Joy and my dear,
With Sword in my Hand the passage I’se clear;
Then open the Gates and let me go free,
For Ise gang no more to Bonny Dundee.
My Father he is a muckle good Leard,
My Mother a Lady bonny and gay;
Then while I have strength to handle a Sweard,
The Parson’s request Ise never obey:
Then Sawny my Man be thou of my Mind,
In bonny Dundee we’se ne’er be confin’d,
The Gates we will force to set ourselves free,
And never come more to bonny Dundee.
The Sawny reply’d Ise never refuse,
To fight for a Leard so valiant and bold;
While I have a drop of Blood for to lose,
E’er any fickle Loon shall keep us in hold:
This Sweard in my Hand I’ll valiantly weild,
And fight by your side to kill or be kill’d,
For forcing the Gates and set ourselves free,
And so bid adieu to bonny Dundee.
With Sweard ready drawn they rid to the Gate,
Where being denied an Entrance thro’
The Master and Man they fought at that rate,
That some ran away, and others they slew:
Thus Jockey the Leard and Sawny the Man,
They valiantly fought as Highlanders can,
In spight of the Loons they set themselves free,
And so bid adieu to bonny Dundee.

---

A SONG. Sung by Mr. Dogget.

[[Listen]]

Let’s sing of Stage-Coaches,
and fear no Reproaches;
for riding in one,
but daily be jogging,

while whistling, and flogging,
while whistling and flogging,
the Coachman drives on;
with a hey geeup, geeup hey ho,
with a hey gee Dobin hey ho, hey,
geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho,
geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho,
with a hey, gee Dobin hey ho.

In Coaches thus strowling,
Who wou’d not be rowling;
With Nymphs on each side,
Still Pratling and Playing;

Our Knees interlaying,
We merrily ride.
With a hey, &c.
Here chance kindly mixes,
All sorts and all Sexes,
More Females than Men,
We squeese ’em, we ease ’em,

The jolting does please ’em,
Drive jollily then,
With a hey, &c.
The harder you’re driving,
The more ’tis reviving,
Nor fear we to tell,
For if the Coach tumble,

We’ll have a rare Jumble,
And then up tails all,
With a hey, &c.

---

The Crafty Cracks of East-Smith-Field, who pick’t up a Master Colour upon Tower-Hill, whom they Plundred of a Purse of Silver, with above Threescore Guineas.

[[Listen]]

YOU Master Colours pray draw near,
And listen to my Report;
My Grief is great, for lo of late,
Two Ladies I chanc’d to Court:
Who did meet me on Tower-Hill,
Their Beauties I did behold:
Those Crafty Jades have learnt their Trades,
And plunder’d me of my Gold.
I’ll tell you how it came to pass,
This sorrowful Story is thus:
Of Guineas bright a glorious Sight,
I had in a Cat-skin Purse:
The Value of near Fourscore Pounds,
As good as e’er I had told,
Those Crafty Jades have learnt their Trades,
And plunder’d me of my Gold.
I saw two poor distressed Men,
Who lay upon Tower-Hill,
To whom in brief I gave Relief,
According to my good Will:
Two wanton Misses drawing near,
My Guineas they did behold;
They laid a Plot by which they Got,
My Silver and yellow Gold.
They both address’d themselves to me,
And thus they was pleas’d to say;
Kind Sir, indeed, we stand in need,
Altho’ we are fine and gay:
Of some Relief which you may give,
I thought they were something bold;
The Plot was laid, I was betray’d,
And plunder’d of all my Gold.
Alas ’tis pity, then I cry’d,
Such Ladies of good Repute,
Should want Relief, therefore in brief,
I gave ’em a kind Salute:
Thought I of them I’ll have my Will,
Altho’ I am something old;
They were I see too wise for me,
They plunder’d me of my Gold.
Then to East-Smithfield was I led,
And there I was entertain’d:
With Kisses fine and Brandy Wine,
In Merriment we remain’d:
Methought it was the happiest Day,
That ever I did behold;
Sweet Meat alass! had sower Sauce,
They plunder’d me of my Gold.
Time after Time to pay their Shot,
My Guineas I would lug out;
Those Misses they wou’d make me stay,
And rally the other bout:
I took my Fill of Pleasures then
Altho’ I was something old;
Those Joys are past, they would not last,
I’m plunder’d of all my Gold.
As I was at the wanton Game,
My Pocket they fairly pick’d;
And all my Wealth they took by stealth,
Thus was a poor Colour trick’d:
Let me therefore a Warning be,
To Merchants both young and old;
For now of late hard was my Fate,
I’m plunder’d of all my Gold.
They got three Pounds in Silver bright,
And Guineas above Threescore,
Such sharping Cracks breaks Merchants Backs,
I’ll never come near them more:
Sure now I have enough of them,
My Sorrow cannot be told;
That crafty Crew makes me look Blew,
I’m plunder’d of all my Gold.

---

The Dance of the Usurer and the Devil.

[[Listen]]

LAST Christmas ’twas my chance,
To be in Paris City;
Where I did see a Dance,
In my conceit was very pretty—By men of France.
First came the Lord of Pool,
And he begun his Measure;
The next came in a Fool,
And danc’d with him for pleasure—With his Tool.
The next a Knight came in,
Who look’d as he would swagger;
And after follow’d him
A merry needy Beggar—Dancing in.
The next a Gentleman,
On him a Servant tending,
And there the Dance began,
With nimble Bodies bending—Like two Friends.
Then in a Lawyer came,
With him a Knave came leaping;
And as they Danc’d in Frame,
So Hand in Hand went skipping—To the Term.
The next a Citizen,
And he a Cuckold leading;
So round about the Room,
Their Masque they fell a Treading—And fain they would.
The next an Usurer,
Old fat Guts he came grunting;
The Devil left all care,
For joy he fell a Jumping—To see him there.
And ending then their Masque,
The Fool his Lord he carries
Upon his Back in hast,
No longer there he tarries—But left the place.
The Beggar took the Knight,
Who took it in Derision;
The Searjeant took in Spite,
The Gentleman to Prison—For all his might.
The Cuckold, silly Man,
Altho’ he was abhorred:
He took the Citizen,
And led him by the Forehead—And out he ran.
The Devil lik’d it well,
His lot it was to carry;
The Usurer to Hell,
And there with him to tarry.

---

The Suburbs is a fine place: To the Tune
of London is a fine Town.

[[Listen]]

THE Suburbs is a fine Place belonging to the City,
It has no Government at all, alack the more the Pity;
A Wife, a silly Animal, esteemed in that same Place,
For there a Civil Woman’s now asham’d to shew her Face:
The Misses there have each Man’s Time, his Money, nay, his Heart,
Then all in all, both great and small, and all in ev’ry Part.
Which Part it is a thorough-fair so open and so large,
One well might sail through ev’ry Tail even in a western Barge;
These Cracks that Coach it now, when first they came to Town,
Did turn up Tail for a Pot of Ale in Linsey Wolsey Gown.
The Bullies first debauch’d ’em, in Baudy Covent-Garden,
That filthy place, where ne’er a Wench was ever worth a Farthing;
And when their Maiden-heads are sold to sneaking Lords,
Which Lords are Clapt at least nine-fold for taking of their Words.
And then my Lord, that many tries, she looks so Innocent,
Believing he Infected her, he makes a Settlement;
These are your Cracks, who skill’d in all kind of Debauches,
Do daily piss, spue and whore in their own glass Coaches.
Now Miss turn Night-walker, till Lord-Mayor’s Men she meets,
O’er Night she’s Drunk, next Day she’s finely flogged thro’ London streets;
After their Rooms of State are chang’d to Bulks or Coblers Stalls,
’Till Poverty and Pox agree they dying in Hospitals.
This Suburbs gallant Fop that takes delight in Roaring,
He spends his time in Huffing, Swearing, Drinking, and in Whoring;
And if an honest Man and his Wife meet them in the Dark,
Makes nothing to run the Husband through to get the name of Spark.
But when the Constable appears, the Gallant, let me tell ye,
His Heart denies his Breeches, and sinks into his Belly;
These are the silly Rogues that think it fine and witty,
To laugh and joak at Aldermen, the Rulers of the City.
They’d kiss our Wives, but hold, for all their plotting Pates,
While they would get us Children, we are getting their Estates;
And still in vain they Court pretending in their Cares,
That their Estates may thus descend unto the Lawful Heirs.
Their Play-houses I hate, are Shops to set off Wenches,
Where Fop and Miss, like Dog and Bitch, do couple under Benches;
That I might advise the chiefest Play-house monger,
I have a Sister of my own both Handsomer and Younger.
She lives not far off in the Parish of St. Clements,
She never liv’d in Cellar nor sold Oranges and Lemons:
Then why should Play-house Trulls with Paint and such Temptations,
Be an Eye sore to me & more to the best part o’th’ Nation.
Now you that all this while have listened to my Dity,
With streightened Hands pray drink a Health unto this noble City:
And let us pray to Jove, these Suburb folks to mend,
And having now no more to say, I think it fit to end.

The Old Woman’s WISH.

[[Listen]]

AS I went by an Hospital,
I heard an Old Woman cry,
Kind Sir, quoth she, be kind to me,
Once more before I Die,
And grant to me those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above reward your Love,
To an old Woman Poor and Blind.
I find an itching in my Blood,
Altho’ it be something Cold,
Therefore Good Man do what you can,
To comfort me now I’m Old.
And Grant to me those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.
Altho’ I cannot see the Day,
Nor never a glance of light;
Kind Sir, I swear and do declare,
I honour the Joys of Night:
Then grant to me those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above Reward you Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.
When I was in my Blooming Youth,
My vigorous Love was Hot;
Now in my Age I dare Engage,
A fancy I still have got:
Then give to me those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.
You shall miss of a Reward,
If Readily you comply;
Then do not Blush but touch my flesh.
This minute before I die:
O let me tast those Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.
I Forty Shillings would freely give,
’Tis all the Mony I have;
Which I full long have begged for,
To carry me to my Grave:
This I would give to have the Bliss,
That belongs to Woman-kind,
And the Fates above reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.
I had a Husband in my Youth,
As very well ’tis known,
The truth to tell he pleased me well,
But now I am left alone;
And long to tast the good Old Game,
That belongs to Woman-kind:
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.
If Forty Shillings will not do,
My Petticoat and my Gown;
Nay Smock also shall freely go,
To make up the other Crown:
Then Sir, pray Grant that kind Request,
That belongs to Woman-kind;
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.
Tho’ I am Fourscore Years of Age,
I love with a Right good Will;
And what in truth I want in Youth,
I have it in perfect Skill:
Then grant to me that Charming Bliss,
That belongs to Woman-kind;
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.
Now if you do not pleasure me,
And give me the thing I crave;
I do protest I shall not rest,
When I am laid in my Grave:
Therefore kind Sir, grant me the Joys,
That belong to Woman-kind;
And the Fates above Reward your Love,
To an Old Woman Poor and Blind.

The Mad-Man’s SONG.

[[Listen]]

THere can be no Glad-man compar’d to the Mad-man,
His Mind is still void of Care;
His Fits and his Fancies, are above all Mischances,
And Mirth is his ordinary Fare.
Then be thou Mad, Mad, Mad let’s be,
Nor shall the foul Fiend be Madder than we.
The Wise and the Witty, in Court and in City,
Are subject to sorrow and Pain;
While he that is Mad, knows not why to be Sad,
Nor has any cause to complain:
Then be thou Mad, &c.
We laugh at you Wise Men, that thus do despise Men,
Whose Senses you think to Decline;
Mark well and you’ll see, what you count but Frenzy,
Is indeed but Raptures Divine.
Then be thou Mad, &c.
Let the Grave and the Wise, pluck out their Eyes,
To set forth a Book worth a Groat;
We Mad-men are quicker, grow Learn’d with good Liquor,
And Chirp a Merry note.
Then be thou Mad, &c.
Hast thou lost thy Estate Man, why, care not for that Man,
What Wealth may’st not fancy thy own;
More than Queen Dido, or her Ass-Ear’d Midas,
That great Philosopher’s stone.
Then be thou Mad, &c.
Pompey was a Mad-man, and so long a Glad-man;
But at length he was forc’d to flee;
For Cæsar from Gallia beat him in Pharsalia,
’Cause a madder Fellow then he.
Then be thou Mad, &c.
’Twas this Extasie brave, that the great Courage gave,
If your Eyes were but ope’d and would see;
To great Alexander, that mighty Commander,
As Mad a Fellow as could be.
Then be thou Mad, &c.
Then around goes a Health to the Lady o’th’ House,
If any Man here does forsake it;
For a Fool let him go, we know better Manners,
And so we mean to take it.
Then be thou Mad, &c.
There’s no Night Mirth’s going, nor any Lad wooing,
But Mad-men are privy unto it;
For the Stars so peep, into every such thing,
And wink upon us as you do it.
Then be thou Mad, &c.
When the Frost, Ice and Snow, do benumb things below,
We Chirp as merry as Larks;
Our Sack and our Madness, consumes cold and sadness,
And we are the Jovial Sparks.
Then be thou Mad, &c.
Has thy Mistress frown’d on thee, or thy Rival out-gone thee?
Let Sober and Wise Fellows pine;
Whilst bright Miralind and goodly Dulcind,
And the rest of the Fairies are thine.
Then be thou Mad, &c.
A Mad-man needs baulk no manner of talk,
His Tongues never guilty with Treason;
But a Wise Knave would suffer, if the same he should utter,
For a wise Man’s Guilt is his Reason.
Then be thou Mad, &c.

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

A Shepherd kept Sheep on a Hill so high, fa, la, la, &c.
And there came a pretty Maid passing by, fa, la, &c.
Shepherd, quoth she, dost thou want e’er a Wife,
No by my troth I’m not weary of my Life, fa, la, la, &c.
Shepherd for thee I care not a Fly, fa, la, la,
For thou’st not the Face with a fair Maid to lie, fa, la,
How now my Damsel, say’st thou me so,
Thou shalt tast of my bottle before thou dost go, fa, la.
Then he took her and laid her upon the Ground, fa, la,
And made her believe that the World went round, fa, la,
Look yonder my Shepherd, look yonder I spy,
There are fine pretty Babies that dance in the Sky, fa, la.
And now they are vanisht, and now they appear, fa, la,
Sure they will tell Stories of what we do here, fa, la, la,
Lie still my dear Chloris, enjoy thy Conceit,
For the Babes are too young and too little to prate, fa, la, la.
See how the Heavens fly swifter than Day, fa, la, la,
Rise quickly, or they will all run away, fa, la, la,
Rise quickly my Shepherd, quickly I tell ye,
For the Sun, Moon and Stars are got all in my Belly, fa, la.
O dear, where am I? pray shew me the way, fa, la, la,
Unto my Father’s House hard by, fa, la, la,
If he chance to Chide me for staying so long,
I’ll tell him the fumes of your Bottle were strong, fa, la, la.
And now thou hast brought my Body to shame, fa, la,
I prithee now tell me what is thy Name, fa, la, la,
Why Robin in the Rushes my Name is, quoth he,
But I think I told her quite contrary, fa, la, la.
Then for Robin in the Rushes, she did enquire, fa, la, la,
But he hung down his Head, and he would not come nigh her, fa, la, la,
He wink’d with one Eye, as if he had been Blind,
And he drew one Leg after a great way behind, fa, la, la.

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

AS I was a walking under a Grove,
Within my self, as I suppos’d;
My Mind did oftentimes remove,
And by no means could be disclosed:
At length by chance a Friend I met,
Which caused me long time to tarry;
And thus of me she did intreat,
To tell her when I meant to Marry.
Sweet-heart, quoth I, if you would know,
Then hear the Words, and I’ll reveal it;
Since in your Mind you bear it so,
And in your Heart you will conceal it:
She promis’d me she’d make no Words,
But of such things she would be wary;
And thus in brief I did begin,
To tell her when I meant to Marry.
When Shrove-tide falls in Easter week,
And Christmas in the midst of July;
When Lawyers for no Fees will Plead,
And Taylors they prove Just and Truly:
When all Deceits are quite put down,
And Truth by all Men is preferred;
And Indigo dies Red and Brown,
O then my Love and I’ll be Married.
When Men and Beasts in the Ocean flow,
And Fishes in green Fields are feeding;
When Muscle-shells in the Streets grow,
And Swans upon dry Rocks be breeding:
When Cockle-shells are Diamond Rings,
And Glass to Pearl may be compared;
Gold is made of a Grey-goose Wings,
Oh then my Love and I’ll be Married.
When hostesses do reckon true,
And Dutchmen leave off drinking Brandy;
When Cats do bark, and Dogs do Mew,
And Brimstone is took for Sugar-candy:
Or when that Whitsontide do fall,
Within the Month of January;
And a Cobler works without an Awl,
O then my, &c.
When Women know not how to Scold,
And Maids on Sweet-hearts ne’er are thinking;
When Men in the Fire complain of Cold,
And Ships on Salisbury Plain fear sinking:
Or when Horse-Coursers turn honest Men,
And London into York is carried;
And out of One you can take Ten,
Oh then, &c.
When Candlesticks do serve for Bells,
And Frying-pans they do use for Ladles;
When in the Sea they dig for Wells,
And Porridge-pots they use for Cradles:
When Maids forget to go a Maying,
And a Man on his Back an Ox can carry;
Or when the Mice with the Cat be playing,
Oh then, &c.
Good Sir, since you have told me when,
That you’re resolv’d for to Marry;
I wish with all my Heart till then,
That for a Wife you still may tarry:
But if all young Men were of your mind,
And Maids no better were preferred;
I think it were when the D——l were blind,
That we and our Lovers should be Married.

---

Gilderoys last Farewel. To a New Tune.

[[Listen]]

GIlderoy was a bonny Boy,
Had Roses tull his shun,
His Stockings were made of the finest Silk,
His Garters hanging down:
It was a comely sight to see,
He was so trim a Boy;
He was my Joy and Heart’s Delight,
My Handsom Gilderoy.
Oh sike a charming Eye he had,
A Breath as sweet as a Rose,
He never wore a Hiland plad,
But costly silken Cloaths:
He gain’d the Love of Ladies gay,
There’s none to him was Coy;
Ah, wa’s me, Ise mourn this Day,
For my Dear Gilderoy.
My Gilderoy and I was born,
Both in one Town together;
Not past Seven years of Age,
Since one did Love each other:
Our Daddies and our Mammies both,
Were cloath’d with mickle Joy,
To think upon the Bridal Day,
Betwixt I and my Gilderoy.
For Gilderoy, that Love of mine,
Geud faith Ise freely bought:
A Wedding-sark of Holland fine,
With Silk in Flowers wrought:
And he gave me a Wedding Ring,
Which I receiv’d with Joy;
No Lads or Lasses e’er could Sing,
Like my sweet Gilderoy.
In mickle Joy we spent our time,
Till we was both Fifteen;
Then gently he did lay me down,
Amongst the leaves so green:
When he had done what he could do,
He rose and he gang’d his way;
But ever since I lov’d the Man,
My Handsome Gilderoy.
While we did both together play,
He kiss’d me o’er and o’er;
Geud faith it was as blith a Day,
As e’er I saw before:
He fill’d my Heart in every Vein,
With Love and mickle Joy;
Who was my Love and Hearts delight,
Mine own sweet Gilderoy.
Oh never, never shall I see,
The cause of past Delight;
Or sike a lovely Lad as he,
Transport my Ravish’d sight:
The Law forbids what Love enjoyns,
And does prevent our Joy;
Though just and fair were the Designs,
Of me and Gilderoy.
’Cause Gilderoy had done amiss,
Must he be punish’d then;
What kind of Cruelty is this
To hang such Handsom Men?
The Flower of the Scotish land,
A sweet and lovely Boy;
He likewise had a Lady’s Hand,
My Handsom Gilderoy.
At Leith they took my Gilderoy,
And there God wot they bang’d him:
Carry’d him to fair Edenburgh,
And there God wot they hang’d him:
They hang’d him up above the rest,
He was so trim a Boy;
My only Love and Heart’s Delight,
My Handsom Gilderoy.
Thus having yielded up his Breath,
In Cypress he was laid;
Then for my dearest, after Death,
A Funeral I made:
Over his Grave a Marble-stone,
I fixed for my Joy;
Now I am left to weep alone,
For my dear Gilderoy.

---

The SCOTCH Wedding
Between Jockey and Jenny.

[[Listen]]

THEN Jockey wou’d a Wooing away,
On our Feast-day when he was foo;
Then Jenny put on her best Array,
When she thought Jockey would come to Woo.
If I thought Jockey were come to Town,
It wad be for the leve of me;
Then wad I put on beth Hat and Goown,
Because I’d seem worstsome in his Eye.
Then Jenny prick’d up a brant breeght broow,
She was as breeght as onny clock;
As Moggy always used to do,
For fear her Sweet-heart shou’d her mock.
Then Jenny shoo tripped up the Stairs,
And secretly to shift her Smock;
But leard how loud her mother swears,
O hast away Jenny, and come to Jock.
Then Jenny came tripping down the Stairs,
Oh Leard so nimbly tripped she;
But oh how Jockey began to stare,
When he beheld hur fair Beauty!
Then Jenny made a Curtshy low,
Until the Stairs did touch her Dock;
But Leard how loud her Mother did lough,
When shoo Jenny was come to Jock.
Then Jockey tuke Jenny by the Nease,
Saying my dear Lovey canst thou loof me?
My Father is Dead and has left me Land,
Some fair ould Houses twa or three.
Thou shalt be the Lady o’er them aw,
I doot, quod Jenny you do me mock;
Ad ta my saw, quoth Jockey, then,
I come to woo thee Jenny, quoth Jock.

This to be said after the SONG.

Sea then they gang’d to the Kirk to be wad; noow they den’t use to wad in Scotchland as they wad in England, for they gang to the Kirk, and they take the Donkin by the Rocket, and say, good morn Sir Donkin, says Sir Donkin, ah Jockey sen ater me, wit ta ha Jenny to thy wadded Wife? ay by her Lady quoth Jockey and thanka twa, we aw my Heart; ah Jenny sen ater me, wit ta ha Jockey to thy wadded Loon, to have and to hold for aver and aver, forsaking aw other Loons, lubberloons, black Lips, blue Nases, an aw Swiggbell’d caves? ah, an these twa be’nt as weel wadded as e’er I wadded twa in Scotchland, the Deel and St. Andrew part ye.

---

A Scotch Song made to the Irish Jigg, and
Sung to the King at Whitehall.

[[Listen]]

LAtely as thorough the fair Edinborough,
To view the fair Meadows as I was ganging;
Jockey and Moggy were walking and talking,
Of Love and Religion, thus closely Haranguing;
Never says Moggy, come near me false Jockey,
For thou art a Whig, and I mean to abhor thee;
Ize be no Bride, nor will lig by thy side,
For no sneaking Rebel shall lift a Leg o’er me.
Jockey. Fairest and Dearest,
And to my Heart nearest,
To live with thy Frowns I no longer am able;
I am so loving,
And thou art so moving,
Each Hair of thy Head ties me fast as a Cable:
Thou hast that in thee,
Ise sure to win me,
To Jew, Turk or Atheist, so much I adore thee;
Nothing I’d shun,
That is under the Sun,
So I have the pleasure to lift a Leg o’er thee.
Moggy. Plotters and Traytors,
And Associators,
In every degree thou shalt swear to oppose ’em;
Swimmers and Trimmers,
The Nations Redeemers,
And for thy Reward thou shalt sleep in my Bosom;
I had a Dad,
Was a Royal brave Lad,
And as true as the Sun to his Monarch before me;
Moggy he cry’d,
The same hour that he Dy’d,
Let no sneaking Rebel e’er lift a Leg o’er thee.
Jockey. Adieu then ye Crew then,
Of Protestant Blue Men,
No Faction his Moggy from Jockey shall sever;
Thou shalt at Court,
My Conversion Report,
I am not the first Whig by his Wife brought in favour;
Ise never deal,
For the dull Common Weal,
To fight for true Monarchy shall be my Glory;
Lull’d with thy Charms,
Then I die in your Arms,
When I have the Pleasure to lift a Leg o’er thee.

---

The Fair Lass of ISLINGTON.

[[Listen]]

THere was a Lass of Islington,
As I have heard many tell;
And she would to Fair London go,
Fine Apples and Pears to sell:
And as along the Streets she flung,
With her basket on her Arm:
Her Pears to sell, you may know it right well,
This fair Maid meant no harm.
But as she tript along the Street,
Her pleasant Fruit to sell;
A Vintner did with her meet,
Who lik’d this Maid full well:
Quoth he, fair Maid, what have you there?
In Basket decked brave;
Fine Pears, quoth she, and if it please ye
A taste Sir you shall have.
The Vintner he took a Taste,
And lik’d it well, for why;
This Maid he thought of all the rest,
Most pleasing to his Eye:
Quoth he, fair Maid I have a Suit,
That you to me must grant;
Which if I find you be so kind,
Nothing that you shall want.
Thy Beauty doth so please my Eye,
And dazles so my sight;
That now of all my Liberty,
I am deprived quite:
Then prithee now consent to me,
And do not put me by;
It is but one small courtesie,
All Night with you to lie.
Sir, if you lie with me one Night,
As you propound to me;
I do expect that you should prove,
Both courteous, kind and free:
And for to tell you all in short,
It will cost you Five Pound,
A Match, a Match, the Vintner said,
And so let this go round.
When he had lain with her all Night,
Her Money she did crave,
O stay, quoth he, the other Night,
And thy Money thou shalt have:
I cannot stay, nor I will not stay,
I needs must now be gone,
Why then thou may’st thy Money go look,
For Money I’ll pay thee none.
This Maid she made no more ado,
But to a Justice went;
And unto him she made her moan,
Who did her Case lament:
She said she had a Cellar Let out,
To a Vintner in the Town;
And how that he did then agree
Five Pound to pay her down.
But now, quoth she, the Case is thus,
No Rent that he will pay;
Therefore your Worship I beseech,
To send for him this Day:
Then strait the Justice for him sent,
And asked the Reason why;
That he would pay this Maid no Rent?
To which he did Reply,
Although I hired a Cellar of her,
And the Possession was mine?
I ne’er put any thing into it,
But one poor Pipe of Wine:
Therefore my Bargain it was hard,
As you may plainly see;
I from my Freedom was Debarr’d,
Then good Sir favour me.
This Fair Maid being ripe of Wit,
She strait Reply’d again;
There were two Butts more at the Door,
Why did you not roul them in?
You had your Freedom and your Will,
As is to you well known;
Therefore I do desire still,
For to receive my own.
The Justice hearing of their Case,
Did then give Order strait;
That he the Money should pay down,
She should no longer wait:
Withal he told the Vintner plain
If he a Tennant be;
He must expect to pay the same,
For he could not sit Rent-free.
But when the Money she had got,
She put it in her Purse:
And clapt her Hand on the Cellar Door,
And said it was never the worse:
Which caused the People all to Laugh,
To see this Vintner Fine:
Out-witted by a Country Girl,
About his Pipe of Wine.

---

The most Famous BALLAD
Of King Henry the 5th; his Victory over
the French at Agencourt.

[[Listen]]

A Councel grave our King did hold,
With many a Lord and Knight:
That he might truly understand,
That France did hold his Right.
Unto the King of France therefore,
Embassadors he sent;
That he might truly understand,
His Mind and whole Intent.
Desiring him in friendly sort,
His lawful Right to yield;
Or else he swore by dint of Sword,
To win it in the Field.
The King of France with all his Lords,
Did hear this Message plain;
And to our brave Embassador,
Did answer with Disdain.
And said our King was yet too young,
And of but tender Age;
Therefore they pass not for his Threats,
Nor fear not his Courage.
His Knowledge yet in Feats of Arms,
As yet is very small;
His tender Joints more fitter are,
To toss a Tennis-ball.
A Tun of Tennis-balls therefore,
In Pride and great Disdain;
He sent unto this Royal King,
To recompence his Pain.
Which Answer when our King did hear,
He waxed wroth in Heart;
And swore he would provide such Balls,
Should make all France to smart.
An Army then our King did hold,
Which was both good and strong;
And from Southampton is our King,
With all his Navy gone.
In France he landed safe and sound,
Both he and all his Train;
And to the Town of Husle then
He marched up amain.
Which when he had besieg’d the Town,
Against the fenced Walls;
To batter down the stately Towers,
He sent his English Balls.
When this was done our King did march,
Then up and down the Land;
And not a Frenchman for his Life,
Durst once his Force withstand.
Until he came to Agencourt,
Whereas it was his chance;
To find the King in readiness,
With all the Power of France.
A mighty Host he had prepar’d,
Of Armed Soldiers then;
Which were no less by just Account,
Than Forty Thousand Men.
Which sight did much amaze our King,
For he and all his Host;
Not passing Fifteen Thousand had,
Accounted with the most.
The King of France who well did know,
The Number of our Men;
In vaunting Pride and great Disdain,
Did send an Herald then:
To understand what he would give,
For Ransom of his Life,
When they in Field had taken him,
Amongst the bloody strife.
And when our King with cheerful Heart,
This answer then did make;
Before that it does come to pass,
Some of your Hearts will ake.
And to your proud presumptuous King,
Declare this thing, quoth he;
My own Heart’s-blood will pay the Price,
Nought else he gets of me.
Then spake the noble Duke of York,
O noble King, quoth he,
The Leading of this Battle brave,
It doth belong to me.
God-a-mercy Cousin York, he said,
I grant thee thy Request;
Then lead thou on couragiously,
And I will lead the rest.
Then came the bragging Frenchmen down,
With cruel Force and Might;
With whom our Noble King began,
A fierce and dreadful Fight.
The Archers they discharg’d their Shafts,
As thick as Hail from Skie;
And many a Frenchman in the Field,
That happy Day did die.
Their Horses tumbled on the Stakes,
And so their Lives they lost;
And many a Frenchman there was ta’en,
As Prisoners to their cost.
Ten Thousand Men that Day was slain,
As Enemies in the Field:
And eke as many Prisoners,
Were forc’d that Day to yield.
Thus had our King a happy Day,
And Victory over France;
And brought them quickly under foot
That late in Pride did prance.
God save our King, and bless this Land,
And grant to him likewise;
The upper-hand and Victory,
Of all his Enemies.

---

The Lady Isabella’s Tragedy: Or, the
Step-Mother’s Cruelty. To the foregoing Tune.

THere was a Lord of worthy Fame,
And a Hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble Train,
Of Gentry on each side.
And whilst he did in Chace remain,
To see both Sport and Play;
His Lady went as she did feign,
Unto the Church to pray.
This Lord he had a Daughter Fair,
Whose Beauty shin’d so bright;
She was belov’d both far and near,
Of many a Lord and Knight.
Fair Isabella was she call’d,
A Creature Fair was she;
She was her Father’s only Joy,
As you shall after see.
But yet her Cruel Step-Mother,
Did Envy her so much;
That Day by Day she sought her Life,
Her Malice it was such.
She bargain’d with the Master-Cook,
To take her Life away;
And taking of her Daughter’s Book,
She thus to her did say.
Go home, sweet Daughter, I thee pray.
Go hasten presently;
And tell unto the Master-Cook,
These Words which I tell thee.
And bid him dress to Dinner straight,
That fair and milk-white Doe;
That in the Park doth shine so bright,
There’s none so fair to show.
This Lady fearing of no harm,
Obey’d her Mother’s Will;
And presently she hasted home,
Her Mind for to fulfil.
She straight into the Kitchin went,
Her Message for to tell,
And there the Master-Cook she spy’d,
Who did with Malice swell.
Now Master-Cook it must be so,
Do that which I thee tell;
You needs must dress the milk-white Doe,
Which you do know full well.
Then straight his cruel bloody Hands,
He on the Lady laid;
Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he said:
Thou art the Doe that I must dress,
See here, behold my Knife;
For it is Pointed presently,
To rid thee of thy Life.
O then cry’d out the Scullion Boy,
As loud as loud might be;
O save her Life, good Master-Cook,
And make your Pies of me?
For pity sake do not destroy
My Lady with your Knife;
You know she is her Father’s Joy,
For Christ’s sake save her Life.
I will not save her Life he said,
Nor make my Pies of thee;
Yet if thou dost this Deed betray,
Thy Butcher I will be;
Now when this Lord he did come home,
For to sit down to Meat;
He called for his Daughter dear,
To come and carve his Meat.
Now sit you down, his Lady said,
O sit you down to Meat;
Into some Nunnery she’s gone,
Your Daughter dear forget.
Then solemnly he made a Vow,
Before the Company;
That he would neither eat nor drink,
Until he did her see.
O then bespoke the Scullion Boy,
With a loud Voice so high;
If that you will your Daughter see
My Lord cut up the Pye.
Wherein her Flesh is minced small,
And parched with the Fire;
All caused by her Step-Mother,
Who did her Death desire.
And cursed be the Master-Cook,
O cursed may he be!
I proffer’d him my own Heart’s Blood,
From Death to set her free.
Then all in Black this Lord did Mourn,
And for his Daughter’s sake;
He judged for her Step-Mother,
To be burnt at a Stake.
Likewise he judg’d the Master-Cook,
In boyling Lead to stand;
He made the simple Scullion Boy,
The Heir to all his Land.

---

A Ballad

In Praise of a certain Commander in the City.

[[Listen]]

A Heroe of no small Renown,
But noted for a Man of Mettle;
Thro’ all the Parts of London Town,
No Gentleman, nor yet a Clown,
No grave wise man, nor stupid Beetle.
By many Deeds of Prowess done,
He’s gain’d a matchless Reputation;
Perform’d by neither Sword nor Gun,
But by what means you’ll know anon,
And how he work’d his Preservation.
Well mounted on a noble Steed,
With Sword and Pistol charg’d before him;
Altho’ we must confess indeed,
Of either Arms there was no need,
His Conduct did alone secure him.
With’s Wife upon a single Horse,
T’wards Eppin both rid out together;
But what than ill Luck can be worse,
A High-way-Man of equal Force,
Alass, obstructed both their Pleasure.
With Pistol cock’d he made demand,
And told them he must have their Money;
The Major wisely would not stand,
Nor on his Pistols clap a Hand,
He was not such a Fighting Tony.
But spur’d away as swift as Wind,
No Elk or Tyger could run faster;
Was ever Man so stout and kind,
To leave his frighted Wife behind,
Expos’d to such a sad Disaster.
Her Necklace, Cloaths and Diamond Ring,
The greedy Robber quickly fell to;
One Petticoat he let her bring
Away with Smock, and t’other Thing,
To let her noble Heroe smell to.
This Slight bred sad domestick Strife,
Altho’ the Man’s to be commended;
For what’s a loving handsome Wife,
To a Man’s Money or his Life,
For all is lost when that is ended.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

AS the Fryer he went along, and a poring in his Book,
At last he spy’d a Jolly brown Wench a washing of her Buck,
Sing, Stow the Fryer, stow the Fryer
Some good Man, and let this fair Maid go.
The Fryer he pull’d out and a Jolly brown T——d as much as he could handle,
Fair Maid, quoth he, if thou earnest Fire in thy A—— come light me this same Candle.
Sing, Stow the Fryer, &c.
The Maid she sh—— and a Jolly brown T—— out of her Jolly brown Hole,
Good Sir, quoth she, if you will a Candle light come blow me this same Cole.
Sing, Stow the Fryer, &c.
Part of the Sparks flew into the North, and part into the South,
And part of this jolly brown T—— flew into the Fryer’s Mouth.
Sing, Stow the Fryer, stow the Fryer
Some good Man, and let this fair Maid go.

---

The Lass of Lynn’s sorrowful Lamentation
for the Loss of her Maiden-Head.

[[Listen]]

I Am a young Lass of Lynn,
Who often said thank you too;
My Belly’s now almost to my Chin,
I cannot tell what to do.
My being so free and kind,
Does make my Heart to rue;
The sad Effects of this I find,
And cannot tell what to do.
My Petticoats which I wore,
And likewise my Aprons too;
Alass, they are all too short before,
I cannot, &c.
Was ever young Maid so crost,
As I who thank’d him too:
For why, my Maiden-head is lost,
I cannot tell what to do.
In sorrowful sort I cry’d,
And may now for ever rue;
The Pain lies in my Back and Side,
I cannot tell what to do.
Alass I was kind and mild,
But now the same I rue;
Having no Father for my Child,
I cannot, &c.
I took but a Touch in jest,
Believe me this is true;
Yet I have proved, I protest,
And cannot, &c.
He crav’d my Virginity,
And gave me his own in lieu;
In this I find I was too kind,
And cannot, &c.
Each Damsel will me degrade,
And so will the young Men too;
I’m neither Widow, Wife, nor Maid,
I cannot, &c.
A Cradle I must provide,
A Chair and Posset too;
Nay, likewise twenty Things beside,
I cannot, &c.
When I was a Maiden fair,
Such Sorrows I never knew;
But now my Heart is full of Care,
I cannot, &c.
Oh what will become of me,
My Belly’s as big as two;
’Tis with a Two-legg’d Tympany,
I cannot tell what to do.
You Lasses that hear my Moan,
If you will your Joys renew;
Besure, while Married, lye alone,
Or else you at length may rue.
I came of as good a Race,
As most is in Lynn’s fair Town;
And cost a great deal bringing up,
But a little Thing laid me down.

The Jovial Tinker.

[[Listen]]

THERE was a Jovial Tinker,
Which was a good Ale drinker;
He never was a Shrinker,
Believe me this is true;
And he came from the wild of Kent,
When all his Money was gone and spent,
Which made him look like a Jack-a-Lent,
And Joan’s Ale is new,
And Joan’s Ale is new Boys,
And Joan’s Ale is new.
The Tinker he did settle,
Most like a Man of Mettle,
And vow’d to pawn his Kettle,
Now mark what did ensue;
His Neighbours they flock’d in apace,
To see Tom Tinker’s comely Face,
Where they drank soundly for a space,
Whilst Joan’s Ale, &c.
The Cobler and the Broom Man,
Came next into the Room, Man,
And said they would drink for boon Man,
Let each one take his due;
But when good Liquor they had found,
They cast their Caps upon the Ground,
And so the Tinker he drank round,
Whilst Joan’s Ale, &c.
The Rag-Man being weary,
With the Burden he did carry,
He swore he would be merry,
And spend a Shilling or two;
And he told his Hostess to her Face,
The Chimney-corner was his Place,
And he began to drink apace,
And Joan’s Ale, &c.
The Pedlar he drew nigher,
For it was his desire,
To throw the Rags i’th’ Fire,
And burn the bundle blue;
So whilst they drank whole Flashes,
And threw about the Glasses,
The Rags were burnt to Ashes,
And Joan’s Ale, &c.

The Second PART.

AND then came in a Hatter,
To see what was the matter,
He scorn’d to drink cold Water,
Amongst that Jovial Crew;
And like a Man of Courage stout,
He took the Quart-Pot by the Snout,
And never left till all was out,
O Joan’s Ale, &c.
The Taylor being nimble,
With Bodkin, Shears and Thimble,
He did no whit dissemble,
I think his name was True;
He said that he was like to choak,
And he call’d so fast for Lap and Smoak,
Until he had pawn’d the Vinegar Cloak,
For Joan’s Ale, &c.
Then came a pitiful Porter,
Which often did resort there,
Quoth he, I’ll shew some Sport here,
Amongst the Jovial Crew;
The Porter he had very bad luck,
Before that it was ten a Clock,
The Fool got Drunk, and lost his Frock,
For Joan’s Ale, &c.
The bonny brave Shoe-maker,
A brave Tobacco taker,
He scorn’d to be a Quaker,
I think his Name was Hugh;
He call’d for Liquor in so fast,
Till he forgot his Awl and Last,
And up the Reckoning he did cast,
Whilst Joan’s Ale, &c.
And then came in the Weaver,
You never saw a braver,
With a Silk Man and a Glover,
Tom Tinker for to view;
And so to welcom him to Town,
They every Man spent half a Crown,
And so the Drink went merrily down,
For Joan’s Ale, &c.
Then came a Drunken Dutchman,
And he would have a touch, Man,
But he soon took too much, Man,
Which made them after rue;
He drank so long as I suppose,
’Till greasie Drops fell from his Nose,
And like a Beast befoul’d his Hose,
Whilst Joan’s Ale, &c.
A Welchman he came next, Sir,
With Joy and Sorrow Mixt, Sir,
Who being partly vex’d, Sir,
He out his Dagger drew;
Cuts-plutter-a-nails, quoth Taffy then,
A Welchman is a Shentleman,
Come Hostess fill’s the other Cann,
For Joan’s Ale, &c.
Thus like to Men of Courage stout,
Couragiously they drank about,
Till such time all the Ale was out,
As I may tell to you;
And when the Business was done,
They every man departed home,
And promis’d Joan again to come,
When she had Brew’d anew.

---

The Soldiers Fortune: Or, the taking
Mardyke.

[[Listen]]

WHen first Mardyke was made a Prey,
’Twas Courage that carry’d the Fort away,
Then do not lose your Valours Prize,
By gazing on your Mistresses Eyes;
But put off your Petticoat-parley,
Potting and sotting, and laughing and quaffing Canary,
Will make a good Soldier miscarry:
And never Travel for true Renown:
Then turn to your Marshal Mistress,
Fair Minerva the Soldier’s Sister is;
Rallying and sallying, with gashing and slashing of Wounds Sir,
With turning and burning of Towns, Sir,
Is a high step to a great Man’s Throne.
Let bold Bellona’s Brewer frown,
And his Tunn shall overflow the Town;
And give the Cobler Sword and Fate:
And a Tinker may trapan the State;
Such Fortunate Foes as these be,
Turn’d the Crown to a Cross at Naseby:
Father and Mother, Sister and Brother confounded,
And many a good Family wounded;
By a terrible turn of Fate,
He that can kill a Man, thunder and plunder the Town, Sir,
And pull his Enemies down, Sir,
In time may be an Officer great.
It is the Sword does order all,
Makes Peasants rise, and Princes fall;
All Sylogisms in vain are spilt,
No Logick like a Basket-hilt:
It handles ’em joint by joint Sir,
Quilling and drilling, and spilling, and Killing profoundly,
Until the Disputers on Ground lie,
And have never a word to say;
Unless it be Quarter, Quarter, Truth is confuted by a Carter,
By stripping and nipping, and ripping and quipping Evasions,
Doth Conquer a Power of Perswasions,
Aristotle hath lost the Day.
The Musket bears so great a force,
To Learning it has no Remorse;
The Priest, the Layman, the Lord,
Find no distinction from the Sword;
Tan tarra, Tan tarra the Trumpet,
Now the Walls begin to crack,
The Councellors struck dumb too,
By the Parchment upon the Drum too;
Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub an Alarum,
Each Corporal now can out-dare ’em,
Learned Littleton goes to rack.
Then since the Sword so bright doth shine,
We’ll leave our Wenches and our Wine,
And follow Mars where-e’er he runs,
And turn our Pots and Pipes to Guns.
The Bottles shall be Grenadoes,
We’ll bounce about the Bravado’s
By huffing and puffing, and snuffing and cuffing the French Boys,
Whose Brows have been dy’d in a Trench Boys;
Well got Fame is a Warriour’s Wife,
The Drawer shall be the Drummer,
We’ll be Colonels all next Summer
By hiking and tilting, and pointing and jointing like brave Boys,
We shall have Gold or a Grave, Boys,
And there’s an end of a Soldier’s Life.

The MISSES Complaint.

Tune, Packington’s Pound.

[[Listen]]

HOW now Sister Betteris, why look you so sad?
Gillian. The times are so hard and our trading so bad,
That we in our Function no Money can gain,
Our Pride and our Bravery for to maintain.
Bett. True Sister, Gillian, I know it full well,
But what will you say if such News I do tell?
And how’t will rejoyce you, I’ll make it out plain,
Will make our Trade quick, and more Money will gain.
There’s none of the pitiful Tribe we’ll be for,
And Six-penny Customers we will abhor;
For all those that will our Dominions invade,
Must pay for their sauce, we must live by our Trade.
Gil. Good Sister if you can make this but appear,
My Spirit and Senses you greatly will chear,
But a Famine of Flesh will bring all things to pass,
Or else we are as bad still as ever we was.
Bett. Lately a Counsel of Bauds there did meet,
In Cock and Pye Alley, near Do-little Street:
And who was the Counsel, and what was there done;
I’ll make it out to you as clear as the Sun.
From Ratcliffe-highway, and from Nightingale-lane,
Their Deputies come with a very fine Train:
Unto these two Couple come long sided Sue,
Is as good as e’er twang’d, if you give her her due.
Then Tower-Ditch and Hatton-Wall sent in their Prayers,
And drest as compleatly as Horses to Fairs;
With them Jumping Jenny appear’d, as ’tis said,
Who ne’er in her Life of a Man was afraid.
The two Metropolitans came from the Park,
As arch at the Game, as e’er plaid in the Dark;
Then Lutener’s-lane a gay Couple did bring,
Two better, I think, was ne’er stretch’d in hemp-string.
There was many others from Places remote,
The which were too tedious for me here to note;
And what was their Business I here will declare,
How to keep our Trade in Repute they take care.
And first for those Ladies that walk in the Night,
Their Aprons and Handkerchiefs they should be white,
And that they do walk more in Town than in Fields,
For that is the Place most Variety yields.
And those that are over-much worn by their Trade,
Shall go in a Vessel, their Passage being paid;
The Venture of Cuckolds, ’tis called by Name,
And this is the way for to keep up our Fame.
And this is the Ship which the Cuckolds have brought,
It lies at their Haven, and is to be frought:
And thither Whores rampant, that please may repair,
With Master and Captain to truck for their Ware.
And for a Supply that our trade may increase,
For wanton Commodity it will grow less;
We’ll visit the Carriers, and take them up there,
And then for their Tutering we will take care.
In this we shall ease all the Countries to do’t,
And do our selves Pleasure and Profit to boot;
For one that is crack’d in the Country before,
In London will make a spick and span Whore.
There’s many more Precepts which they did advise,
But these which I’ll give you here shall suffice:
And when you have heard them, I think you will say,
We ne’er were more likely to thrive in our way.

---

Some Orders agreed upon at a General Consultation of the Sisterhood of Nightingale-lane, Ratcliff-high-way, Tower-Ditch, Rose-mary-lane, Hatton-Wall, Saffron-hill, Wetstone’s-Park, Lutener’s-lane, and other Places adjacent, for the general Encouragement and Advancement of their Occupation.

I.

THat no Night-walker presume to go without a White Apron and Handkerchief, the better to be seen.

II.

To keep due Time and Hours, for fear of the Constable and his Watch.

III.

That those which are over-worn, cast off and cashier’d, do repair to the Ship called (the Cuckolds Venture) now riding at Cuckolds Haven, thence to be transported over-Sea, to have their Breeches repaired.

IV.

That a due care be taken to visit the Carriers for crack’d Maidenheads, for the use and increase of our Occupation.

V.

That all honest Women belonging to either Wittals or Cuckolds, be admitted to the principal Places in this Ship.

VI.

And lastly, for the better State and Magnificence of the honourable Corporation of W——es, ’tis order’d that a Chariot be made to be drawn by Cuckolds, the Cuckold-makers to drive, and the Wittals to ride.

---

The well approved Doctor:
Or, an Infallible Cure for Cuckolds. To
the foregoing Tune.

THERE is a fine Doctor now come to Town,
Whose practice in Physick hath gain’d him Renown,
In curing of Cuckolds he hath the best Skill,
By giving one Dose of his approved Pill.
His Skill is well known, and his Practice is great,
Then come to the Doctor before ’tis too late;
His Med’cines are safe, and the Doctor is sure,
He takes none in Hand but he perfects, the Cure.
The Doctor himself he doth freely unfold,
That he can Cure Cuckolds tho’ never so old;
He helps this Distemper in all sorts of Men,
At Forty and Fifty, yea, Threescore and Ten.
There was an old Man lived near to the Strand,
Decripid and Feeble, scarce able to stand;
Who had been a Cuckold full Forty long Years,
But hearing of this how he prick’d up his Ears.
Away to the Doctor he went with all speed,
Where he struck a bargain, they soon were agreed;
He cured his Forehead that nothing was seen,
And now he’s as brisk as a Youth of Fifteen.
Now this being known, how his Fame it did ring,
And unto the Doctor much trading did bring;
They came to the Doctor out of e’ery Shire,
From all Parts and Places, yea both far and near.
Both Dutchmen and Scotchmen to London did ride,
With Shonny-ap-Morgan, and Thousands beside;
Thus all sorts and sizes, both rich Men and poor,
They came in whole Cart-loads to this Doctor’s door.
Some whining, some weeping, some careful and sad,
And some was contented, and others born mad;
Some crooked, some straight Horns, and some overgrown,
The like in all Ages I think was ne’er known.
Some rich and brave flourishing Cuckolds were there,
That came in whole Droves, Sir, as if to Horn-Fair;
For now there is hopes to be cur’d of their Grief,
The Doctor declares in the Fall of the Leaf.
Let none be so foolish as now to neglect,
This Doctor’s great Kindness and civil Respect;
Tho’ rich Men may pay, yet the Poor may go free,
So kind and so courteous a Doctor is he.
’Tis known he so worthy a Conscience doth make,
Poor Cuckolds he’ll cure them for Charity sake;
Nay, farther than this still his Love does enlarge,
Providing for them at his own Cost and Charge.
But some are so wicked, that they will exclaim
Against their poor Wives, making ’em bare the Blame;
And will not look out in the least for a Cure,
But all their sad Pains and their Tortures endure.
But ’tis without reason, for he that is born
Under such a Planet, is Heir to the Horn:
Then come to the Doctor both rich Men and Poor,
He’ll carefully cure you, what would you have more?
The Term of his Time here the Doctor does write,
From six in the Morning ’till seven at Night;
Where in his own Chamber he still will remain,
At the Sign of the Woodcock in Vinegar-lane.

---

The Doctor doth here likewise present you with the Receipt of his Infallible Medicine, that those which have no occasion for it themselves, may do good to their Neighbours and Acquaintances: And take it here as followeth.

TAKE five Pound of Brains of your December Flies,
And forty true Tears from a Crocodile’s Eyes;
The Wit of a Weasel, the Wool of a Frog,
With an Ounce of Conserve of Michaelmas Fog.
And make him a Poultis when he goes to Bed,
To bind to his Temples behind of his Head;
As hot as the Patient he well can endure,
And this is for Cuckolds an absolute Cure.

A Song.

GOOD Neighbour why do you look awry,
You are a wond’rous Stranger;
You walk about, you huff and pout,
As if you’d burst with Anger:
Is it for that your Fortune’s great,
Or you so Wealthy are?
Or live so high there’s none a-nigh
That can with you compare?
But t’other Day I heard one say,
Your Husband durst not show his Ears,
But like a Lout does walk about,
So full of Sighs and Fears:
Good Mrs. Tart, I caren’t a Fart,
For you nor all your Jears.
My Husband’s known for to be one,
That is most Chast and pure;
And so would be continually,
But for such Jades as you are:
You wash, you lick, you smug, you trick,
You toss a twire a grin;
You nod and wink, and in his Drink,
You strive to draw him in:
You Lie you Punck, you’re always Drunk,
And now you Scold and make a Strife,
And like a Whore you run o’ th’ Score,
And lead him a weary Life;
Tell me so again you dirty Quean,
And I’ll pull you by the Quoif.
Go dress those Brats, those nasty Rats,
That have a Lear so drowzy;
With Vermin spread they look like Dead,
Good Faith they’re always Lousie:
Pray hold you there, and do not swear,
You are not half so sweet;
You feed yours up with bit and sup,
And give them a dirty Teat:
My Girls, my Boys, my only Joys,
Are better fed and taught than yours;
You lie you Flirt, you look like Dirt,
And I’ll kick you out of Doors;
A very good Jest, pray do your best,
And Faith I’ll quit your Scores.
Go, go you are a nasty Bear,
Your Husband cannot bear it;
A nasty Quean as e’er was seen,
Your Neighbours all can swear it:
A fulsome Trot and good for nought,
Unless it be to chat;
You stole a Spoon out of the Room,
Last Christning you were at:
You lye you Bitch you’ve got the Itch,
Your Neighbours know you are not sound;
Look how you Claw with your nasty Paw,
And I’ll fell you to the Ground;
You’ve tore my Hood, you shall make it good
If it cost me Forty Pound.

---

The Jovial Cobler of St. Hellens.

[[Listen]]

I am a jovial Cobler bold and brave,
And as for Employment enough I have:
For to keep jogging my Hammer and Awl,
Whilst I sit Singing and Whistling in my Stall,
Stall, Stall, whilst I sit Singing and Whistling in my Stall.
But there’s Dick the Carman, and Hodge who drives the Dray
For Sixteen, or Eighteen Pence a Day,
Slave in the Dirt, whilst I with my Awl,
Get more Money, sitting, sitting in my Stall, &c.
And there’s Tom the Porter, Companion of the Pot,
Who stands in the Street with his Rope and Knot,
Waiting at a Corner to hear who will him call,
Whilst I am getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
And there’s the jolly Broom-man, his Bread for to get,
Crys Brooms up and down in the open Street,
And one crys broken Glasses tho’ ne’er so small,
Whilst I am getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
And there’s another gang of poor smutty Souls,
Doth trudge up and down to cry Small-coals;
With a Sack on their Back, at a Door stand and call,
Whilst I am getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
And there’s another sort of Notes,
Who crys up and down old Suits and Coats;
And perhaps some Days get nothing at all,
Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
And there’s the Jolly Cooper with his Hoops at his Back,
Who trudgeth up and down to see who lack
Their Casks to be made tite, with Hoops great and small,
Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
And there’s a Jolly Tinker that loves a bonny Lass,
Who trudges up and down to mend old Brass;
With his long smutty Punch to force holes withal,
Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
And there is another old Tom Terrah,
Who up and down the City drives his Barrow;
To sell his Fruit both great and small,
Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
And there is the Blind and Lame, with a Wooden Leg,
Who up and down the City they forced are to beg
Some Crumbs of Comfort, the which are but small,
Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
And there’s a gang of Wenches who Oysters sell,
And Powder Moll with her sweet smell;
She trudges up and down with Powder and Ball,
Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
And there’s the jovial Girls with their Milking-Pails,
Who trudge up and down with their Draggle Tails:
Flip flapping at their Heels for Custom they call,
Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.
’Tis these are the Gang who take great Pain,
And it is those who do me maintain;
But when it blows and rains I do pity them all,
To see them trudge about while I am in my Stall, &c.
And there’s many more who slave and toil,
Their living to get, but it is not worth while,
To mention them, so I’ll sing in my Stall,
I am the happiest Mortal, Mortal of them all,
All, all, I am the happiest Mortal, Mortal of them all.

The Merchant and the Fidler’s Wife.

[[Listen]]

IT was a Rich Merchant Man,
That had both Ship and all;
And he would cross the salt Seas,
Tho’ his cunning it was but small.
The Fidler and his Wife,
They being nigh at hand;
Would needs go sail along with him,
From Dover unto Scotland.
The Fidler’s Wife look’d brisk,
Which made the Merchant smile;
He made no doubt to bring it about,
The Fidler to beguile.
Is this thy Wife the Merchant said,
She looks like an honest Spouse;
Ay that she is, the Fidler said,
That ever trod on Shoes.
Thy Confidence is very great,
The Merchant then did say;
If thou a Wager darest to bet,
I’ll tell thee what I will lay.
I’ll lay my Ship against thy Fiddle,
And all my Venture too;
So Peggy may gang along with me,
My Cabin for to View.
If she continues one Hour with me,
Thy true and constant Wife;
Then shalt thou have my Ship and be,
A Merchant all thy Life.
The Fidler was content,
He Danc’d and Leap’d for joy;
And twang’d his Fiddle in merriment,
For Peggy he thought was Coy.
Then Peggy she went along,
His Cabin for to View;
And after her the Merchant-Man,
Did follow, we found it true.
When they were once together,
The Fidler was afraid;
For he crep’d near in pitious fear,
And thus to Peggy he said.
Hold out, sweet Peggy hold out,
For the space of two half Hours;
If thou hold out, I make no doubt,
But the Ship and Goods are ours.
In troth, sweet Robin, I cannot,
He hath got me about the Middle;
He’s lusty and strong, and hath laid me along,
O Robin thou’st lost thy Fiddle.
If I have lost my Fiddle,
Then am I a Man undone;
My Fiddle whereon I so often play’d,
Away I needs must run.
O stay the Merchant said,
And thou shalt keep thy place;
And thou shalt have thy Fiddle again,
But Peggy shall carry the Case.
Poor Robin hearing that,
He look’d with a Merry-chear;
His wife she was pleas’d, and the Merchant was eas’d,
And jolly and brisk they were.
The Fidler he was mad,
But valu’d it not a Fig;
Then Peggy unto her Husband said,
Kind Robin play us a Jigg.
Then he took up his Fiddle,
And merrily he did play;
The Scottish Jigg and the Horn pipe,
And eke the Irish Hey.
It was but in vain to grieve,
The Deed it was done and past;
Poor Robin was born to carry the Horn,
For Peggy could not be Chast.
Then Fidlers all beware,
Your Wives are kind you see;
And he that’s made for the Fidling Trade,
Must never a Merchant be.
For Peggy she knew right well,
Although she was but a Woman;
That Gamesters Drink, and Fidlers Wives,
They are ever Free and Common.

The Unconstant Woman.

[[Listen]]

DID you not hear of a gallant Sailor,
Whose Pockets they were lin’d with Gold;
He fell in Love with a pretty Creature,
As I to you the Truth unfold:
With a kind Salute, and without Dispute,
He thought to gain her for his own,
Unconstant Woman proves true to no Man,
She has gone and left me all alone.
Don’t you remember my pretty Peggy,
The Oaths and Vows which you made to me:
All in the Chamber we were together,
That you would ne’er unconstant be:
But you prove strange Love, and from me range,
And leave me here to Sigh and Moan;
Unconstant Woman is true to no Man,
She’s gone and left me all alone.
As I have Gold you shall have Treasure,
Or any dainty kind of thing;
Thou may’st command all Delights and Pleasure,
And what you’d have, Love, I would you bring:
But you prove shy, and at last deny,
Him that admires you alone;
Unconstant Woman proves true to no Man,
She’s left me here to make my moan.
When first I saw your charming Beauty,
I stood like one all in amaze;
I study’d only how to pay Duty,
And could not speak but only gaze,
At last said I, fair Maid comply,
And ease a wretched Lover’s Moan;
Unconstant Woman proves true to no Man,
She’s gone and left me here alone.
I made her Presents of Rings and Jewels,
With Diamond Stones I gave her too;
She took them kindly, and call’d me Jewel,
And said her Love to me was true:
But in the end she prov’d unkind,
When I thought she had been my own;
Unconstant Woman, &c.
For three Months time we saw each other,
And she oft said she’d be my Wife;
I had her Father’s Consent and Mother,
I thought to have liv’d a happy Life:
She’d laugh and toy both Night and Day,
But at length she chang’d her Tone;
Unconstant Woman, proves true to no Man,
She’s left me now to make my Moan.
Many a time we have walk’d together,
Both Hand in Hand to an Arbour green;
Where Tales of Love in Sun-shiny Weather,
We did discourse and were not seen:
With a kind Salute we did dispute,
While we together were alone:
Unconstant Woman she’s true to no Man,
She’s gone and left me here alone.
Since Peggy has my kindness slighted,
I’ll never trust a Woman more;
’Twas in her alone I e’er delighted,
But since she’s false I’ll leave the Shoar:
In Ship I’ll enter, on Seas I’ll venture,
And sail the World where I’m not known:
Unconstant Woman proves true to no Man,
She’s gone and left me here alone.

Sorrow banish’d in a Mug. The Words
by Sir Edward Morgan.

[[Listen]]

IF Sorrow the Tyrant invade thy Breast,
Haul out the foul Fiend by the Lug, the Lug,
Let nought of to morrow disturb thy Rest,
But dash out his Brains with a Mug, a Mug.
If Business unluckily goes not well,
Let the fond Fools their Affections hug,
To shew our Allegiance we’ll go to the Bell,
And banish Despair in a Mug, a Mug.
If thy Wife proves not one of the Best, the Best,
But admits no time but to think, to think;
Or the weight of thy Forehead bow down thy Crest,
Divert the dull Damon with Drink, with Drink,
If Miss prove peevish and will not gee,
Ne’er pine, ne’er pine at the wanton Pug,
But find out a fairer, a kinder than she,
And banish Dispair in a Mug, a Mug.
If dear Assignation be crost, be crost,
And Mistress go home in a rage, a rage;
Let not thy poor Heart like a Ship be tost,
But with a brisk Brimmer engage, engage:
What if the fine Fop and the Mask fall out.
And the one Hug, and t’other Tug,
While they pish and fie, we will frolick in Stout,
And banish all Care in a Mug, a Mug.
If toying young Damon by Sylvia’s Charms,
At length should look pale and perplexed be;
To cure the Distemper and ease those harms,
Go straight to the Globe and ask Number three:
There beauties like Venus thou canst not lack,
Be kind to them, they will sweetly hug;
There’s choice of the Fairest, the Brown or the Black.
Then banish Despair in a Mug, a Mug.
Let then no Misfortune e’er make thee dull,
But drink away care in a Jug, a Jug;
Then let not thy Tide steal away, but pull,
Carouse away though in a Mug, a Mug:
While others for Greatness and Fortune’s doom,
While they for their Ambition tug;
We’ll sit close and snug in a Sea-coal Room,
And banish Despair in a Mug, a Mug.
Let Zealots o’er Coffee new Plots devise,
And lace with fresh Treason the Pagan Drug;
Whilst our Loyal Blood flows our Veins shall shine,
Like our Faces inspir’d with a Mug, a Mug:
Let Sectaries dream of Alarms, Alarms,
And Fools still for new changes tug;
While fam’d for our Loyalty we’ll stand to our Arms,
And drink the King’s Health in a Mug, a Mug.
Come then to the Queen let the next Advance,
And all Loyal Lads of true English Race;
Who hate the stum Poison of Spain and France,
Or to Bourdeux or Burgundy do give place;
The Flask and the Bottle breeds Ach and Gout,
Whilst we, we all the Season lie snug;
Neither Spaniard nor Flemming, can vie with our Stout,
And shall submit to the Mug, the Mug.

---

The Good Fellow. Words by Mr.
Alex. Brome.

[[Listen]]

STay, stay, shut the Gates,
T’other Quart, faith, it is not so late
As you’re thinking,
Those Stars which you see,
In this Hemisphere be,
But the Studs in your Cheeks by your Drinking:
The Sun is gone to Tiple all Night in the Sea Boys,
To Morrow he’ll blush that he’s paler than we Boys,
Drink Wine, give him Water, ’tis Sack makes us jee Boys.
Fill, fill up the Glass,
To the next merry Lad let it pass,
Come away with’t:
Come Set Foot to Foot,
And but give our Minds to’t,
’Tis Heretical Six that doth slay Wit,
No Helicon like to the Juice of the Vine is,
For Phœbus had never had Wit, nor Diviness,
Had his Face been bow dy’d as thine, his, and mine is.
Drink, drink off your Bowls,
We’ll enrich both our Heads and our Souls
With Canary;
A Carbuncled Face,
Saves a tedious Race,
For the Indies about us we carry:
Then hang up good Faces, we’ll drink till our Noses
Give freedom to speak what our Fancy disposes,
Beneath whose protection is under the Roses.
This, this must go round,
Off your Hats, till that the Pavement be Crown’d
With your Beavers;
A Red-coated Face,
Frights a Searjeant at Mace,
And the Constable trembles to shivers:
In state march our Faces like those of the Quorum,
When the Wenches fall down and the Vulgar adore’em,
And our Noses, like Link-boys, run shining before’em.

The Nymphs Holiday. The Tune of the
Nightingale.

[[Listen]]

UPon a Holiday, when Nymphs had leave to play,
I walk’d unseen, on a pleasant Green,
Where I heard a Maid in an angry Spleen,
Complaining to a Swain, to leave his drudging Pain,
And sport with her upon the Plain;
But he the silly Clown,
Regardless of her Moan, did leave her all alone,
Still she cry’d, come away, come away bonny Lad come away,
I cannot come, I will not come, I cannot come, my
Work’s not done,
Was all the Words this Clown did say.
She vex’d in her Mind to hear this Lad’s reply,
To Venus she went, in great Discontent,
To desire her Boy with his Bow ready bent,
To take a nimble Dart, and strike him to the Heart,
For disobeying her Commandment:
Cupid then gave the Swain such a Bang,
As made him to gang with this bonny Lass along,
Still she cry’d, come away, come away bonny Lad, come hither,
I come, I come, I come, I come, I come, I come,
So they gang’d along together.

---

Good Honest Trooper take warning by Donald Cooper. To the Tune of Daniel Cooper.

[[Listen]]

A Bonny Lad came to the Court,
His Name was Donald Cooper,
And he Petition’d to the King,
That he might be a Trooper:
He said that he,
By Land and Sea,
Had fought to Admiration,
And with Montross
Had many blows,
Both for his King and Nation.
The King did his Petition grant,
And said he lik’d him dearly,
Which gave to Donald more content,
Than Twenty Shillings yearly:
This wily Leard
Rode in the Guard,
And lov’d a strong Beer Barrel;
Yet stout enough,
To Fight and Cuff,
But was not given to Quarrel.
Till on a Saturday at Night,
He walked in the Park, Sir;
And there he kenn’d a well fair Lass,
When it was almost dark, Sir;
Poor Donald he
Drew near to see,
And kist her bonny Mow, Sir;
He laid her flat
Upon her back,
And bang’d her side Weam too, Sir.
He took her by the Lilly white Hand,
And kiss’d his bonny Mary,
Then they did to the Tavern go,
Where they did drink Canary;
When he was Drunk,
In came a Punck,
And ask’d gan he would Mow her;
Then he again,
With Might and Main,
Did bravely lay her o’er, Sir.
Poor Donald he rose up again,
As nothing did him ail, Sir;
But little kenn’d this bonny Lass,
Had Fire about her Tail, Sir:
When Night was spent
Then Home he went,
And told it with a Hark, Sir;
How he did Kiss
A dainty Miss,
And lifted up the Sark, Sir.
But e’er a Month had gone about,
Poor Donald walked sadly:
And every yean enquir’d of him,
What gar’d him leuk so badly:
A Wench, quoth he,
Gave Snuff to me,
Out of her Placket box, Sir;
And I am sure,
She prov’d a Whore,
And given to me the Pox, Sir.
Poor Donald he being almost Dead,
Was turn’d out of the Guard, Sir;
And never could get in again,
Although he was a Leard, Sir:
When Mars doth meet,
With Venus sweet,
And struggles to surrender;
The Triumph’s lost,
Then never trust
A Feminine Commander.
Poor Donald he went home again,
Because he lost his Place, Sir;
For playing of a Game at Whisk,
And turning up an Ace, Sir;
Ye Soldiers all,
Both great and small,
A Foot-man or a Trooper;
When you behold,
A Wench that’s bold
Remember Donald Cooper.

---

The Jovial Drinker.

[[Listen]]

A Pox on those Fools, who exclaim against Wine,
And fly the dear sweets that the Bottle doth bring;
It heightens the Fancy, the Wit does refine,
And he that was first Drunk was made the first King.
By the help of good Claret old Age becomes Youth,
And sick Men still find this the only Physitian;
Drink largely, you’ll know by experience, the Truth,
That he that drinks most is the best Politician.
To Victory this leads on the brave Cavalier,
And makes all the Terrors of War, but Delight;
This flushes his Courage, and beats off base Fear,
’Twas that taught Cæsar and Pompey to fight.
This supports all our Friends, and knocks down our Foes,
This makes us all Loyal Men from Courtier to Clown;
Like Dutchmen from Brandy, from this our Strength grows
So ’tis Wine, noble Wine, that’s a Friend to the Crown.

---

The Sexton’s SONG.

Sung by Ben. Johnson, in the Play of Hamlet Prince of Denmark, acting the Grave maker.

[[Listen]]

ONce more to these Arms my lov’d Pick-ax and Spade,
With the rest of the Tools that belong to my Trade;
I that Buried others am rose from the Dead,
With a Ring, a Ring, Ring, a Ring, and Dig a Dig, Dig.
My Thoughts are grown easie, my Mind is at rest,
Since Things at the worst are now grown to the best,
And I and the Worms that long fasted shall Feast,
With a Ring, &c.
How I long to be Measuring and cleaving the Ground,
And commending the Soil for the Sculls shall be found,
Whose thickness alone, not the Soil makes them sound,
With a Ring, &c.
Look you Masters, I’ll cry, may the Saints ne’er me save,
If this ben’t as well contriv’d sort of a Grave,
As a Man could wish on such occasion to have,
With a Ring, &c.
Observe but the make of’t, I’ll by you be try’d,
And the Coffin so fresh there that lies on that side,
It’s Fifty Years since he that owns it has dy’d.
With a Ring, &c.
I hope to remember your Friend in a Bowl,
An honest good Gentleman, God rest his Soul,
He has that for a Ducket is worth a Pistole,
With a Ring, &c.
At Marriages next I’ll affirm it and swear,
If the Bride would be private so great was my Care,
That not a Soul knew that the Priest joyn’d the Pair,
With a Ring, &c.
When I myself whisper’d and told it about
What Door they’d go in at, what Door they’d go out,
To receive the Salutes of the Rabble and Rout,
With a Ring, &c.
At Chris’nings I’ll sit with abundance of Joy,
And Drink to the Health of the Girl or the Boy,
At the same I wish that Fate both would destroy,
That I may Ring, &c.
What e’er’s my Religion, my Meaning’s to Thrive,
So the Child that is born, to the Font but survive,
No matter how short it’s continuance alive,
That I may Ring, &c.
Hear then my good Neighbours attend to my cry,
And bravely get Children, and decently die,
No Sexton now breathing shall use you as I,
With a Ring a Ring, Ring a Ring, Dig a Dig, Dig.

---

The Great BOOBEE.

[[Listen]]

MY Friend if you would understand,
My Fortunes what they are;
I once had Cattle House and Land,
But now I am never the near:
My Father left a good Estate,
As I may tell to thee;
I couzened was of all I had,
Like a great Boobee.
I went to School with a good intent,
And for to learn my Book;
And all the Day I went to play,
In it I never did look:
Full seven Years, or very nigh,
As I may tell to thee;
I could hardly say my Criss-Cross-Row,
Like a great Boobee.
My Father then in all the hast,
Did set me to the Plow;
And for to lash the Horse about,
Indeed I knew not how:
My Father took his Whip in Hand,
And soundly lashed me;
He called me Fool and Country Clown,
And a great Boobee.
But I did from my Father run,
For I would Plow no more;
Because he had so lashed me,
And made my sides so sore:
But I will go to London Town,
Some Fashions for to see;
When I came there they call’d me Clown,
And a great Boobee.
But as I went along the Street,
I carried my Hat in my Hand,
And to every one that I did meet,
I bravely Buss’d my Hand:
Some did laugh, and some did scoff,
And some did mock at me;
And some did say I was a Woodcock,
And a great Boobee.
Then I did walk in hast to Paul’s
The Steeple for to view;
Because I heard some People say,
It should be builded new;
Then I got up unto the Top,
The City for to see;
It was so high it made me cry,
Like a great Boobee.
From thence I went to Westminster,
And for to see the Tombs:
Oh, said I, what a House is here,
With an infinite sight of Rooms:
Sweetly the Abby Bells did Ring,
It was a fine sight to see;
Methought I was going to Heav’n in a String,
Like a great Boobee.
But as I went along the Street,
The most part of the Day;
Many Gallants I did meet,
Methought they were very gay:
I blew my Nose and pist my Hose,
Some People did me see:
They said I was a Beastly Fool:
And a great Boobee.
Next Day I thro’ Pye-corner past,
The Roast-meat on the Stall;
Invited me to take a Taste,
My Money was but small:
The Meat I pickt, the Cook me kickt,
As I may tell to thee;
He beat me sore and made me roar,
Like a great Boobee.
As I thro’ Smithfield lately walkt,
A gallant Lass I met:
Familiarly with me she talk’t,
Which I cannot forget:
She proferr’d me a Pint of Wine,
Methought she was wondrous free,
To the Tavern then I went with her,
Like a great Boobee.
She told me we were near of Kin,
And call’d for Wine good store;
Before the Reckoning was brought in,
My Cousin prov’d a Whore:
My Purse she pickt, and went away,
My Cousin couzened me,
The Vintner kickt me out of Door;
Like a great Boobee.
At the Exchange when I came there,
I saw most gallant things;
I thought the Pictures living were,
Of all our English Kings:
I doft my Hat and made a Leg,
And kneeled on my Knee;
The People laugh’d and call’d me Fool,
And a great Boobee.
To Paris-Garden then I went,
Where there is great resort;
My Pleasure was my Punishment,
I did not like the Sport:
The Garden-Bull with his stout Horns,
On high then tossed me;
I did bewray my self with fear,
Like a great Boobee.
The Bearward went to save me then,
The People flock’d about;
I told the Bear-Garden-Men,
My Guts they were almost out:
They said I stunk most grievously,
No Man would pity me;
They call’d me witless Fool and Ass,
And a great Boobee.
Then o’er the water I did pass,
As you shall understand;
I dropt into the Thames, alass,
Before I came to Land:
The Waterman did help me out,
And thus did say to me;
’Tis not thy fortune to be drown’d,
Like a great Boobee.
But I have learned so much Wit,
Shall shorten all my Cares;
If I can but a Licence get,
To play before the Bears:
’Twould be a gallant Place indeed,
As I may tell to thee:
Then who dares call me Fool or Ass,
Or great Boobee.

---

Set by Mr. Jeremiah Clark,
Sung by Mr. Leveridge.

[[Listen]]

WHen Maids live to Thirty, yet never repented,
When Europe’s at Peace and all England contented,
When Gamesters won’t Swear, and no bribery thrives,
Young Wives love old Husbands, young Husbands old Wives;
When Landlords love Taxes, and Soldiers love Peace:
And Lawyers forget a rich Client to Fleece:
When an old Face shall please as well as a new,
Wives, Husbands, and Lovers will ever be true.
When Bullies leave huffing and Cowards their Trembling,
And Courtiers and Women and Priests their Dissembling,
When these shall do nothing against what they teach,
Pluralities hate, and we mind what they Preach:
When Vintners leave Brewing to draw the Wine pure,
And Quacks by their Medicines kill less than they Cure,
When an old Face shall please as well as a new,
Wives, Husbands and Lovers will ever be true.

Words to a Tune of Mr. Barret’s, call’d
the Catherine.

[[Listen]]

IN the pleasant Month of May,
When the merry, merry Birds began to sing;
And the Blossoms fresh and gay;
Usher’d in the welcome Spring,
When the long cold Winter’s gone,
And the bright enticing Moon,
In the Evening sweetly shon:
When the bonny Men and Maids tript it on the Grass;
At a jolly Country Fair,
When the Nymphs in the best appear;
We resolv’d to be free, with a Fiddle and a She,
E’ery Shepherd and his Lass.
In the middle of the Sport,
When the Fiddle went brisk and the Glass went round,
And the Pretty gay Nymphs for Court,
With their Merry Feet beat the Ground;
Little Cupid arm’d unseen,
With a Bow and Dart stole in,
With a conquering Air and Mien,
And empty’d his Bow thro’ the Nymphs and the Swains;
E’ery Shepherd and his Mate,
Soon felt their pleasing Fate,
And longing to try in Enjoyment to die,
Love reign’d o’er all the Plains.
Now the sighing Swain gave o’er,
And the wearied Nymphs could dance no more,
There were other Thoughts that mov’d,
E’ery pretty kind Pair that Lov’d:
In the Woods the Shepherds lay,
And mourn’d the time away,
And the Nymphs as well as they,
Long’d to taste what it is that their Senses cloys,
Till at last by consent of Eyes,
E’ery Swain with his pretty Nymph flies,
E’ery Buxom She retires with her He,
To act Love’s solid Joys.

---

A Scotch Song. Sung by Mrs. Lucas at
the Old Theatre.

[[Listen]]

BY Moon-light on the Green,
Our bonny Lasses Cooing;
And dancing there I’ve seen,
Who seem’d alone worth Wooing:
Her Skin like driven Snow,
Her Hair brown as a Berry:
Her Eyes black as a Slow,
Her Lips red as a Cherry.
Oh how she tript it, skipt it,
Leapt it, stept it, whiskt it,
Friskt it, whirld it, twirl’d it,
Swimming, springing, starting:
So quick, the tune to nick,
With a heave and a toss:
And a jerk at parting,
With a heave, and a toss, and a jerk at parting.
As she sat down I bowed,
And veil’d my bonnet to her;
Then took her from the Crowd,
With Honey words to woo her;
Sweet blithest Lass, quoth I,
It being bleaky Weather:
I prithee let us try,
Another Dance together;
Oh how she, &c.
Whilst suing thus I stood,
Quoth she, pray leave your fooling;
Some Dancing heats the Blood,
But yours I fear lacks cooling:
Still for a Dance I pray’d,
And we at last had Seven;
And whilst the Fiddle play’d,
She thought her self in Heaven,
Oh how she, &c.
At last she with a Smile,
To Dance again desir’d me;
Quoth I, pray stay a while,
For now good faith ye’ve tir’d me:
With that she look’d on me,
And sigh’d with muckle sorrow;
Than gang ye’ar gate, quoth she,
But Dance again to morrow.

---

The Quaker’s Song. Sung by Mrs. Willis
at the New Play-House.

[[Listen]]

AMongst the pure ones all,
Which Conscience doth profess;
And yet that sort of Conscience,
Doth practice nothing less:
I mean the Sect of those Elect,
That loath to live by Merit;
That leads their Lives with other Mens Wives,
According unto the Spirit.
One met with a Holy Sister of ours,
A Saint who dearly lov’d him:
And fain he would have kiss’d her,
Because the Spirit mov’d him:
But she deny’d, and he reply’d,
You’re damn’d unless you do it;
Therefore consent, do not repent,
For the Spirit doth move me to it.
She not willing to offend, poor Soul,
Yielded unto his Motion;
And what these two did intend,
Was out of pure Devotion:
To lye with a Friend and a Brother,
She thought she shou’d die no Sinner,
But e’er five Months were past,
The Spirit was quick within her.
But what will the Wicked say,
When they shall here of this Rumour;
They’d laugh at us every Day,
And Scoff us in every Corner:
Let ’em do so still if that they will,
We mean not to follow their Fashion,
They’re none of our Sect, nor of our Elect,
Nor none of our Congregation.
But when the time was come,
That she was to be laid;
It was no very great Crime,
Committed by her they said:
’Cause they did know, and she did show,
’Twas done by a Friend and a Brother,
But a very great Sin they said it had been,
If it had been done by another.

---

A Song.

[[Listen]]

AS Oyster Nan stood by her Tub,
To shew her vicious Inclination;
She gave her noblest Parts a Scrub,
And sigh’d for want of Copulation:
A Vintner of no little Fame,
Who excellent Red and White can sell ye,
Beheld the little dirty Dame,
As she stood scratching of her Belly.
Come in, says he, you silly Slut,
’Tis now a rare convenient Minute;
I’ll lay the Itching of your Scut,
Except some greedy Devil be in it:
With that the Flat-capt Fusby smil’d,
And would have blush’d, but that she cou’d not;
Alass! says she, we’re soon beguil’d,
By Men to do those things we shou’d not.
From Door they went behind the Bar,
As it’s by common Fame reported;
And there upon a Turkey Chair,
Unseen the loving Couple sported:
But being call’d by Company,
As he was taking pains to please her;
I’m coming, coming Sir, says he,
My Dear, and so am I, says she, Sir.
Her Mole-hill Belly swell’d about,
Into a Mountain quickly after;
And when the pretty Mouse crept out,
The Creature caus’d a mighty Laughter:
And now she has learnt the pleasing Game,
Altho’ much Pain and Shame it cost her;
She daily ventures at the same,
And shuts and opens like an Oyster.

The Irish Jigg: Or, the Night Ramble.

[[Listen]]

ONE Night in my Ramble I chanc’d to see,
A thing like a Spirit, it frightened me;
I cock’d up my Hat and resolv’d to look big,
And streight fell a Tuning the Irish Jigg.
The Devil drew nearer and nearer in short,
I found it was one of the Petticoat sort;
My Fears being over, I car’d not a Fig,
But still I kept tuning the Irish Jigg.
And then I went to her, resolving to try her;
I put her agog of a longing desire;
I told her I’d give her a Whip for her Gig,
And a Scourge to the Tune of the Irish Jigg.
Then nothing but Dancing our Fancy could please,
We lay on the Grass and Danc’d at our ease;
I down’d with my Breeches and off with my Whigg,
And we fell a Dancing the Irish Jigg.
I thank you, kind Sir, for your kindness, said she,
The Scholar’s as Wise as the Master can be;
For if you should chance to get me with Kid,
I’ll lay the poor Brat to the Irish Jigg.
The Dance being ended as you may see,
We rose by Consent and we both went away;
I put on my Cloaths and left her to grow big,
And so I went Roaring the Irish Jigg.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

IT was a happy Golden Day,
When fair Althea Kind and Gay,
Put all but Love and me away;
I arm’d with soft Words did Address,
Sweet and kind Kisses far express,
A greater Joy and Happiness.
Nature the best Instructeress cry’d,
Her Ivory Pillows to divide,
That Love might Sail with Wind and Tide;
She rais’d the Mast and sail’d by it,
That Day two Tides together met,
Drove him on Shore soon dropping wet.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

AH! Cælia how can you be Cruel and Fair?
Since removing,
The Charms that are loving,
’Twould make a poor Lover Despair;
’Tis true, I have lov’d you these seven long Years & more,
Too long for a Man that ne’er was in Love before:
And if longer you my Caresses deny,
I then am resolv’d to give over my Flames and die.
Love fires the Heart of him that is Brave,
Charms the Spirit
Of him that is merit,
And makes the poor Lover a Slave;
Dull sordid Souls that never knew how to Love,
Where Nature is plung’d, ’tis a shame to the best above:
And if any longer you my Caresses deny,
I then am resolv’d to give over my Flames and die.

A Song.

[[Listen]]

THERE was a Knight and he was Young,
A riding along the way, Sir;
And there he met a Lady fair,
Among the Cocks of Hay, Sir:
Quoth he, shall you and I Lady,
Among the Grass lye down a;
And I will have a special Care,
Of rumpling of your Gown a.
If you will go along with me,
Unto my Father’s Hall, Sir;
You shall enjoy my Maiden-head,
And my Estate and all, Sir:
So he mounted her on a milk-white Steed,
Himself upon another;
And then they rid upon the Road,
Like Sister and like Brother.
And when she came to her Father’s House,
Which was moated round about, Sir;
She stepped streight within the Gate,
And shut this Young Knight out, Sir,
Here is a Purse of Gold, she said,
Take it for your Pains, Sir;
And I will send my Father’s Man,
To go home with you again, Sir.
And if you meet a Lady fair,
As you go thro’ the next Town, Sir;
You must not fear the Dew of the Grass,
Nor the rumpling of her Gown, Sir:
And if you meet a Lady Gay,
As you go by the Hill, Sir;
If you will not when you may,
You shall not when you will, Sir.
There is a Dew upon the Grass,
Will spoil your Damask Gown a;
Which has cost your Father dear,
Many Shilling and a Crown a:
There is a Wind blows from the West,
Soon will dry the Ground a;
And I will have a special Care,
Of the rumpling of my Gown a.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

SLaves to London I’ll deceive you,
For the Country now I leave you:
Who can bear, and not be Mad,
Wine so dear, and yet so bad:
Such a Noise and Air so smoaky,
That to stun, this to choak ye;
Men so selfish, false and rude,
Nymphs so young and yet so lew’d.
Quiet harmless Country Pleasure,
Shall at home engross my Leisure;
Farewel London, I’ll repair,
To my Native Country Air:
I leave all thy Pleasures behind me,
But at home my Wife will find me;
Oh the Gods! ’tis ten times worse,
London is a milder Curse.

---

The Duke of ORMOND’S March.

Set by Mr. Church.

[[Listen]]

YE brave Boys and Tars,
That design for the Wars,
Remember the Action at Vigo;
And where ORMOND Commands,
Let us all joyn our Hands,
And where he goes, may you go, and I go.
Let Conquest and Fame,
The Honour proclaim,
Great ORMOND has gotten at Vigo;
Let the Trumpets now sound,
And the Ecchoes around,
Where he goes, may you go, and I go.
Let the Glories be Sung,
Which the ORMONDS have won,
Long before this great Action at Vigo;
They’re so Loyal and Just,
And so true to their Trust,
That where he goes, may you go, and I go.
Old Records of Fame,
Of the ORMONDS great Name,
Their Actions, like these were of Vigo;
And since this Prince exceeds,
In his Fore-Father’s Deeds,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
’Tis the Praise of our Crown,
That such Men of Renown,
Shou’d lead on the Van, as at Vigo;
Where such Lives and Estates
Are expos’d for our sakes,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
’Twas the whole Nation’s Voice,
And we all did rejoyce,
When we heard he Commanded for Vigo;
To ANNA so True,
All her Foes to pursue,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
’Tis the Voice of the Town,
And our Zeal for the Crown,
To serve ORMOND to France, Spain, or Vigo;
So Noble and brave,
Both to Conquer and save,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
To the Soldiers so kind,
And so humbly inclin’d,
To wave his Applause gain’d at Vigo;
Yet so kind and so true,
He gave all Men their due,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.
We justly do own,
All the Honour that’s won,
In Flanders, as well as at Vigo;
But our Subject and Theme,
Is of ORMOND’s great Name,
And where he goes, may you go, and I go.
Then take off the Bowl,
To that Generous Soul,
That Commanded so bravely at Vigo;
And may ANNA approve,
Of our Duty and Love,
And where he goes, may you go, and I go.

A Cure for Melancholy.

[[Listen]]

ARE you grown so Melancholy,
That you think on nought but Folly;
Are you sad,
Are you Mad,
Are you worse;
Do you think,
Want of Chink
Is a Curse:
Do you wish for to have,
Longer Life, or a Grave,
Thus would I Cure ye.
First I would have a Bag of Gold,
That should ten Thousand Pieces hold,
And all that,
In thy Hat,
Would I pour;
For to spend,
On thy Friend,
Or thy Whore:
For to cast away at Dice,
Or to shift you of your Lice,
Thus would I Cure ye.
Next I would have a soft Bed made,
Wherein a Virgin should be laid;
That would Play,
Any way
You’ll devise;
That would stick
Like a Tick,
To your Thighs,
That would bill like a Dove,
Lye beneath or above,
Thus would I Cure ye.
Next that same Bowl, where Jove Divine,
Drank Nectar in, I’d fill with Wine;
That whereas,
You should pause,
You should quaff;
Like a Greek,
Till your Cheek,
To Ceres and to Venus,
To Bacchus and Silenus,
Thus would I Cure ye.
Last of all there should appear,
Seven Eunuchs sphere-like Singing here,
In the Praise,
Of those Ways,
Of delights;
Venus can,
Use with Man,
In the Night;
When he strives to adorn,
Vulcan’s Head with a HORN,
Thus would I Cure ye.
But if not Gold, nor Woman can,
Nor Wine, nor Songs, make merry then;
Let the Batt,
Be thy Mate,
And the Owl;
Let a Pain,
In thy Brain,
Make thee Howl;
Let the Pox be thy Friend,
And the Plague work thy end,
Thus I would Cure you.

---

To his fairest Valentine Mrs. A.L.

[[Listen]]

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.

[[Listen]]

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 best Cloths and streight to the Church:
Jog on, merry Collin, jog on before,
For I Faith, I Faith, I’ll dye no more.

The Town-Rakes, A Song: Set by Mr.
Daniel Purcell: Sung by Mr. Edwards.

[[Listen]]

WHat Life can compare with the jolly Town Rakes,
When in his full swing of all Pleasure he takes?
At Noon he gets up for a wet and to Dine,
And Wings the swift Hours with Mirth, Musick, and Wine,
Then jogs to the Play-house and chats with the Masques,
And thence to the Rose where he takes his three Flasks,
There great as a Cæsar he revels when drunk,
And scours all he meets as he reels, as he reels to his Punk,
And finds the dear Girl in his Arms when he wakes,
What Life can compare to the jolly Town-Rakes, the Jolly Town-Rakes.
He like the Great Turk has his favourite She,
But the Town’s his Seraglio, and still he lives free;
Sometimes she’s a Lady, but as he must range,
Black Betty, or Oyster Moll serve for a Change:
As he varies his Sports his whole Life is a Feast,
He thinks him that is soberest is most like a Beast:
All Houses of Pleasure, breaks Windows and Doors,
Kicks Bullies and Cullies, then lies with their Whores:
Rare work for the Surgeon and Midwife he makes,
What Life can Compare with the jolly Town-Rakes.
Thus in Covent-Garden he makes his Campaigns,
And no Coffee-House haunts but to settle his Brains;
He laughs at dry Mortals, and never does think,
Unless ’tis to get the best Wenches and Drink:
He dwells in a Tavern, and lives ev’ry where,
And improving his Hour, lives an age in a Year:
For as Life is uncertain, he loves to make haste,
And thus he lives longest because he lives fast:
Then leaps in the Dark, and his Exit he makes,
What Death can compare with the jolly Town-Rakes.

---

A Song: Set by Mr. Clarke.

[[Listen]]

YOung Coridon and Phillis
Sate in a lovely Grove;
Contriving Crowns of Lillies,
Repeating Tales of Love:
And something else, but what I dare not, &c.
But as they were a Playing,
She oagled so the Swain;
It say’d her plainly saying,
Let’s kiss to ease our Pain:
And something else, &c.
A thousand times he kiss’d her,
Laying her on the Green;
But as he farther press’d her,
Her pretty Leg was seen:
And something else, &c.
So many Beauties removing,
His Ardour still increas’d;
And greater Joys pursuing,
He wander’d o’er her Breast:
And something else, &c.
A last Effort she trying,
His Passion to withstand;
Cry’d, but it was faintly crying,
Pray take away your Hand:
And something else, &c.
Young Coridon grown bolder,
The Minute would improve;
This is the Time he told her,
To shew you how I love;
And something else, &c.
The Nymph seem’d almost dying,
Dissolv’d in amorous Heat;
She kiss’d, and told him sighing,
My Dear your Love is great:
And something else, &c.
But Phillis did recover
Much sooner than the Swain;
She blushing ask’d her Lover,
Shall we not Kiss again:
And something else, &c.
Thus Love his Revels keeping,
’Till Nature at a stand;
From talk they fell to Sleeping,
Holding each others Hand;
And something else, &c.

---

The Amorous Barber’s Passion of Love
for his Dear Bridget.

[[Listen]]

WIth my Strings of small Wire lo I come,
And a Cittern made of Wood;
And a Song altho’ you are Deaf and Dumb,
May be heard and understood.
Dumb, dumb——
Oh! take Pity on me, my Dear,
Me thy Slave, and me thy Vassal,
And be not Cruel, as it were,
Like to some strong and well built old Castle.
Dumb, dumb——
Lest as thou passest along the Street,
Braver every Day and braver;
Every one that does thee meet,
Will say there goes a Woman-shaver.
Dumb, dumb——
And again will think fit,
And to say they will determine;
There goes she that with Tongue killed Clip-Chops,
As a Man with his Thumbs kill Vermine.
Dumb, dumb——
For if thou dost then, farewel Pelf,
Farewel Bridget, for I vow I’ll:
Either in my Bason hang my self,
Or drown me in my Towel,
Dumb, dumb——

A Ballad, made by a Gentleman in Ireland, who could not have Access to a Lady whom he went to visit, because the Maid the Night before had over-laid her pretty Bitch. To the Tune of, O Hone, O Hone.

[[Listen]]

OH! let no Eyes be dry,
Oh Hone, Oh Hone,
But let’s lament and cry,
Oh Hone, O Hone,
We’re quite undone almost,
For Daphne on this Coast,
Has yielded up the Ghost,
Oh Hone, O Hone.
Daphne my dearest Bitch,
Oh Hone, O Hone,
Who did all Dogs bewitch,
Oh Hone, &c.
Was by a careless Maid,
Pox take her for a Jade,
In the Night over-laid,
Oh Hone, &c.
Oh may she never more
Oh Hone, &c.
Sleep quietly, but snore,
Oh Hone, &c.
May never Irish Lad,
Sue for her Maiden-head,
Until it stinks I Gad,
Oh Hone, &c.
Oh may she never keep
Oh Hone, Oh Hone;
Her Water in her Sleep,
Oh Hone, Oh Hone:
May never Pence nor Pounds,
Come more within the Bounds,
Of her Pocket Ad-sounds,
Oh Hone, Oh Hone.

---

Damon forsaken. Set by Mr. Wroth.

[[Listen]]

WHEN that young Damon bless’d my Heart,
And in soft Words did move;
How did I hug the pleasing Dart,
And thank’d the God of Love:
Cupid, said I, my best lov’d Lamb,
That in my Bosom lives:
To thee, for kindling this dear Flame,
To thee, kind God, I’ll give.
But prying Friends o’er-heard my Vow,
And murmur’d in my Ear;
Damon hath neither Flocks nor Plough,
Girl what thou dost beware:
They us’d so long their cursed Art,
And damn’d deluding sham;
That I agreed with them to part,
Nor offer’d up my Lamb.
Cupid ask’d for his Offering,
’Cause I refus’d to pay;
He took my Damon on his Wing,
And carry’d him quite away:
Pitch’d him before Olinda’s Charms,
Those Wonders of the Plain;
Commanding her into her Arms,
To take the dearest Swain.
The envy’d Nymph, soon, soon obey’d,
And bore away the Prize;
’Tis well she did, for had she stay’d,
I’d snatch’d him from her Eyes:
My Lamb was with gay Garlands dress’d,
The Pile prepar’d to burn;
Hoping that if the God appeas’d,
My Damon might return.
But oh! in vain he’s gone, he’s gone,
Phillis he can’t be thine;
I by Obedience am undone,
Was ever Fate like mine:
Olinda do, try all thy Charms,
Yet I will have a part;
For whilst you have him in your Arms,
I’ll have him in my Heart.

---

The Apparition to the Jilted Lover. Set
by Mr. Wroth.

[[Listen]]

THINK wretched Mortal, think no more,
How to prolong thy Breath:
For thee there are no Joys in store,
But in a welcome Death:
Then seek to lay thee under Ground,
The Grave cures all Despair;
And healeth every bitter Wound,
Giv’n by th’ ungrateful Fair.
How cou’dst thou Faith in Woman think,
Women are Syrens all;
And when Men in Loves Ocean sink,
Take Pride to see ’em fall:
Women were never real yet,
But always truth despise:
Constant to nothing but Deceit,
False Oaths and flattering Lies.
Ah! Coridon bid Life adieu,
The Gods will thee prefer;
Their Gates are open’d wide for you,
But bolted against her:
Do thou be true, you vow’d to Love,
Phillis or Death you’ll have;
Now since the Nymph doth perjured prove,
Be just unto the Grave.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

HEaven first created Woman to be Kind,
Both to be belov’d, and for to Love;
If you contradict what Heav’n has design’d,
You’ll be contemn’d by all the Pow’rs above:
Then no more dispute me, for I am rashly bent,
To subject your Beauty
To kind Nature’s Duty,
Let me than salute you by Consent.
Arguments and fair Intreats did I use,
But with her Consent could not prevail;
She the Blessing modestly would still refuse,
Seeming for to slight my amorous Tale:
Sometimes she would cry Sir, prithee Dear be good,
Oh Sir, pray Sir, why Sir?
Pray now, nay now, fye Sir,
I would sooner die Sir, than be rude.
I began to treat her then another way,
Modestly I melted with a Kiss;
She then blushing look’d like the rising Day,
Fitting for me to attempt the Bliss:
I gave her a fall Sir, she began to tear,
Crying she would call Sir,
As loud as she could baul Sir,
But is prov’d as false, Sir, as she’s Fair.

Ralph’s going to the Wars.

[[Listen]]

TO the Wars I must alass,
Though I do not like the Game,
For I hold him to be an Ass,
That will lose his Life for Fame:
For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch’ve heard zome zay,
Ch’ill kill a Man he knows not how.
When the Bow, Bill, Zword and Dagger,
Were us’d all in vighting;
Ch’ve heard my Father swear and swagger,
That it was but a Flea-biting:
But these Guns, &c.
Ise would vight with the best of our Parish,
And play at Whisters with Mary;
Cou’d thump the Vootball, yerk the Morrie,
And box at Visticuffs with any:
But these Guns, &c.
Varewel Dick, Tom, Ralph and Hugh,
My Maypoles make all heretofore;
Varewel Doll, Kate, Zis and Zue,
For I shall never zee you more:
For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch’ve heard zome zay,
Ch’ill kill a Man he knows not how.

---

A Song in Praise of Punch.

[[Listen]]

COME fill up the Bowl with the Liquor that fine is,
And much more Divine is,
Than now a-days Wine is, with all their Art,
None here can controul:
The Vintner despising, tho’ Brandy be rising,
’Tis Punch that must chear the Heart:
The Lovers complaining, ’twill cure in a trice,
And Cælia disdaining, shall cease to be nice,
Come fill up the Bowl, &c.
Thus soon you’ll discover, the cheat of each Lover,
When free from all Care you’ll quickly find,
As Nature intended ’em willing and kind:
Come fill up the Bowl, &c.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

BONNY Peggy Ramsey that any Man may see,
And bonny was her Face, with a fair freckel’d Eye,
Neat is her Body made, and she hath good Skill,
And square is her Wethergig made like a Mill:
With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,
Bonny Peggy Ramsey she gives weel her Mill.
Peggy to the Mill is gone to grind a Bowl of Mault,
The Mill it wanted Water, and was not that a fault;
Up she pull’d her Petticoats and piss’d into the Dam,
For six Days and seven Nights she made the Mill to gang;
With a hey, &c.
Some call her Peggy, and some call her Jean,
But some calls her Midsummer, but they all are mista’en;
For Peggy is a bonny Lass, and grinds well her Mill,
For she will be Occupied when others they lay still:
With a hey, &c.
Peg, thee and Ise grin a poke, and we to War will leanes,
Ise lay thee flat upon thy Back and then lay to the steanes;
Ise make hopper titter totter, haud the Mouth as still,
When twa sit, and eane stand, merrily grind the Mill:
With a hey, &c.
Up goes the Clap, and in goes the Corn,
Betwixt twa rough steans Peggy not to learn;
With a Dam full of Water that she holdeth still,
To pour upon the Clap for burning of the Mill:
With a hey, &c.
Up she pull’d the Dam sure and let the Water in,
The Wheel went about, and the Mill began to grind:
The spindle it was hardy, and the steanes were they well pickt,
And the Meal fell in the Mill Trough, and ye may all come lick:
With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,
Bonny Peggy Ramsey she gives weel her Mill.

A SONG.

Writ by the Famous Mr. Nat. Lee.

PHilander and Sylvia, a gentle soft Pair,
Whose business was loving, and kissing their Care;
In a sweet smelling Grove went smiling along,
’Till the Youth gave a vent to his Heart with his Tongue:
Ah Sylvia! said he, (and sigh’d when he spoke)
Your cruel resolves will you never revoke?
No never, she said, how never, he cry’d,
’Tis the Damn’d that shall only that Sentence abide.
She turn’d her about to look all around,
Then blush’d, and her pretty Eyes cast on the Ground;
She kiss’d his warm Cheeks, then play’d with his Neck,
And urg’d that his Reason his Passion would check:
Ah Philander! she said, ’tis a dangerous Bliss,
Ah! never ask more and I’ll give thee a Kiss;
How never? he cry’d, then shiver’d all o’er,
No never, she said, then tripp’d to a Bower.
She stopp’d at the Wicket, he cry’d let me in,
She answer’d, I wou’d if it were not a sin;
Heav’n sees, and the Gods will chastise the poor Head
Of Philander for this; straight Trembling he said,
Heav’n sees, I confess, but no Tell-tales are there,
She kiss’d him and cry’d, you’re an Atheist my Dear;
And shou’d you prove false I should never endure:
How never? he cry’d, and straight down he threw her.
Her delicate Body he clasp’d in his Arms,
He kiss’d her, he press’d her, heap’d charms upon charms;
He cry’d shall I now? no never, she said,
Your Will you shall never enjoy till I’m dead:
Then as if she were dead, she slept and lay still,
Yet even in Death bequeath’d him a smile:
Which embolden’d the Youth his Charms to apply,
Which he bore still about him to cure those that die.

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

YOur Hay it is mow’d, and your Corn is reap’d,
Your Barns will be full, and your Hovels heap’d;
Come, my Boys come,
Come, my Boys come,
And merrily roar our Harvest home:
Harvest home,
Harvest home,
And merrily roar our Harvest home.
Come, my Boys come, &c.
We ha’ cheated the Parson, we’ll cheat him agen,
For why should a Blockhead ha’ One in Ten:
One in Ten,
One in Ten,
For why should a Blockhead ha’ One in Ten,
One in Ten, &c.
For prating too long, like a Book learnt Sot,
’Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot:
Burnt to Pot,
Burnt to Pot,
’Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot.
Burnt to Pot, &c.
We’ll toss off our Ale till we cannot stand,
And hey for the Honour of old England;
Old England,
Old England,
And hey for the Honour of old England,
Old England, &c.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

I Prithee send me back my Heart,
Since I cannot have thine:
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should you have mine.
Yet now I think on’t, let it be,
To send it me is vain;
Thou hast a Thief in either Eye,
Will steal it back again.
Why should two Hearts in one Breast be,
And yet not be together;
Or Love, where is thy Sympathy,
If thou our Hearts do sever?
But Love is such a Mystery,
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I am best resolv’d,
Then I am most in Doubt.
Then farewel Care, then farewel Woe,
I will no longer pine;
But I’ll believe I have her Heart,
As well as she hath mine.

Bacchus turn’d Doctor. The Words by
Ben. Johnson.

[[Listen]]

LET Soldiers fight for Pay and Praise,
And Money be Misers wish;
Poor Scholars study all their Days,
And Gluttons glory in their Dish:
’Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,
Therefore give us chearing Bowls.
Let Minions marshal in their Hair,
And in a Lover’s lock delight;
And artificial Colours wear,
We have the Native Red and White.
’Tis Wine, &c.
Your Pheasant, Pout, and Culver Salmon,
And how to please your Palates think:
Give us a salt Westphalia-Gammon,
Not Meat to eat, but Meat to drink.
’Tis Wine, &c.
It makes the backward Spirits brave,
That lively, that before was dull;
Those grow good Fellows that are grave,
And kindness flows from Cups brim full,
’Tis Wine, &c.
Some have the Ptysick, some the Rhume,
Some have the Palsie, some the Gout;
Some swell with Fat, and some consume,
But they are sound that drink all out.
’Tis Wine, &c.
Some Men want Youth, and some want Health,
Some want a Wife, and some a Punk;
Some Men want Wit, and some want Wealth,
But he wants nothing that is drunk.
’Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,
Therefore give us chearing Bowls.

---

Jenny making Hay.

[[Listen]]

POOR Jenny and I we toiled,
In a long Summer’s Day;
Till we were almost foiled,
With making of the Hay;
Her Kerchief was of Holland clear,
Bound low upon her Brow;
Ise whisper’d something in her Ear,
But what’s that to you?
Her Stockings were of Kersey green,
Well stitcht with yellow Silk;
Oh! sike a Leg was never seen,
Her Skin as white as Milk:
Her Hair as black as any Crow,
And sweet her Mouth was too;
Oh Jenny daintily can mow,
But, &c.
Her Petticoats were not so low,
As Ladies they do wear them;
She needed not a Page I trow,
For I was by to bear them:
Ise took them up all in my Hand,
And I think her Linnen too;
Which made me for to make a stand;
But, &c.
King Solomon had Wives enough,
And Concubines a Number;
Yet Ise possess more happiness,
And he had more of Cumber;
My Joys surmount a wedded Life,
With fear she lets me mow her;
A Wench is better than a Wife,
But, &c.
The Lilly and the Rose combine,
To make my Jenny fair;
There’s no Contentment sike as mine;
I’m almost void of Care:
But yet I fear my Jenny’s Face,
Will cause more Men to woe;
Which if she should, as I do fear,
Still, what is that to you?

---

The Knotting Song. The Words by Sir
Charles Sydney.

[[Listen]]

HEars not my Phillis how the Birds,
Their feather’d Mates salute:
They tell their Passion in their Words,
Must I alone, must I alone be mute:
Phillis without a frown or smile,
Sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while.
The God of Love in thy bright Eyes,
Does like a Tyrant Reign;
But in thy Heart a Child he lies,
Without a Dart or Flame.
Phillis, &c.
So many Months in silence past,
And yet in raging Love;
Might well deserve one word at last,
My Passion should approve.
Phillis, &c.
Must then your faithful Swain expire,
And not one look obtain;
Which to sooth his fond desire,
Might pleasingly explain.
Phillis, &c.

The French King in a foaming Passion for the loss of his Potent Army in the Netherlands, which were Routed by his Grace the Duke of Marlborough.

[[Listen]]

OLD Lewis le Grand,
He raves like a Fury,
And calls for Mercury;
Quoth he, if I can,
I’ll finish my Days;
For why should I live?
Since the Fates will not give
One affable smile:
Great Marlborough Conquers,
Great Marlborough Conquers,
I’m ruin’d the while.
The Flower of France,
And Troops of my Palace
Which march’d from Versales
Who vow’d to Advance,
With Conquering Sword,
Are cut, hack’d and hew’d,
I well may conclude,
They’re most of them Slain:
Oh! what will become of,
Oh! what will become of,
My Grand-Son in Spain.
My fortify’d Throne,
Propt up by Oppression,
Must yield at Discretion,
For needs must I own,
My Glory decays:
Bold Marlborough comes
With ratling Drums,
And thundering Shot,
He drives all before him,
He drives all before him,
Oh! Where am I got?
He pushes for Crowns,
And slays my Commanders,
And Forces in Flanders;
Great Capital Towns,
For CHARLES has declar’d:
These things like a Dart,
Has pierced my Heart,
And threatens my Death;
Here do I lye sighing,
Here do I lye sighing,
And Panting for Breath.
This passionate Grief,
Draws on my Diseases,
Which fatally ceases
My Spirits in chief,
A fit of the Gout,
The Gravel and Stone,
I have ’tis well known,
At this horrid News,
Of Marlborough’s Triumph,
Of Marlborough’s Triumph,
All Battles I lose.
Wherever he comes,
He is bold and Victorious,
Successful and glorious,
My two Royal Thumbs
With anguish I bite:
To hear his Success;
Yet nevertheless,
My passion’s in vain:
I pity my Darling,
I pity my Darling,
Young Philip in Spain.
I am out of my Wits,
If e’er I had any;
My Foes they are many,
Which plagues me by fits,
In Flanders and Spain:
I’m sick at my Heart,
To think we must part,
With what we enjoy’d,
Towns, Castles, are taken,
Towns, Castles, are taken,
My Troops are destroy’d.
I am I declare,
In a weak Condition,
Go call my Physician,
And let him prepare
Some comfort with speed,
Without all delay,
Assist me I pray,
And hear my Complaint,
A Dram of the Bottle,
A Dram of the Bottle,
Or else I shall faint.
Should I slip my Breath,
At this dreadful Season,
I think it but Reason,
I should lay my Death,
To the daring Foes,
Whose Fire and Smoak,
Has certainly broke,
The Heart in my Breast:
Oh! bring me a Cordial,
Oh! bring me a Cordial,
And lay me to Rest.

---

A Song. Set by Captain Pack.

[[Listen]]

WOuld you be a Man in Fashion?
Would you lead a Life Divine?
Take a little Dram of Passion, (a little dram of Passion)
In a lusty Dose of Wine
If the Nymph has no Compassion,
Vain it is to sigh and groan:
Love was but put in for Fashion,
Wine will do the Work alone.

---

A SONG.

Set by Mr. Tho. Farmer.

[[Listen]]

THough the Pride of my Passion fair Sylvia betrays,
And frowns at the Love I impart;
Though kindly her Eyes twist amorous Rays,
To tye a more fortunate Heart:
Yet her Charms are so great, I’ll be bold in my Pain,
His Heart is too tender,
Too tender, that’s struck with Disdain.
Still my Heart is so just to my Passionate Eyes,
It dissolves with Delight while I gaze:
And he that loves on, though Sylvia denies,
His Love but his Duty obeys:
I no more can refrain her neglects to pursue,
Than the force, the force
Of her Beauty can cease to subdue.

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

WHEN first I fair Celinda knew,
Her Kindness then was great:
Her Eyes I cou’d with Pleasure view,
And friendly Rays did meet:
In all Delights we past the time,
That could Diversion move;
She oft would kindly hear me Rhime
Upon some others Love:
She oft would kindly hear me Rhime,
Upon some others Love.
But ah! at last I grew too bold,
Prest by my growing Flame;
For when my Passion I had told,
She hated ev’n my Name:
Thus I that cou’d her Friendship boast,
And did her Love pursue;
And taught Contentment at the cost,
Of Love and Friendship too.

---

A SONG.

Set by Mr. Fishburne.

[[Listen]]

LONG had Damon been admir’d,
By the Beauties of the Plain;
Ev’ry Breast warm Love inspir’d,
For the proper handsome Swain:
The choicest Nymph Sicilia bred,
Was won by his resistless Charms:
Soft Looks, and Verse as smooth, had led
And left the Captive in his Arms.
But our Damon’s Soul aspires,
To a Goddess of his Race;
Though he sues with chaster Fires,
This his Glories does deface:
The fatal News no sooner blown
In Whispers up the Chesnut Row;
The God Sylvanus with a Frown,
Blasts all the Lawrels on his Brow.
Swains be wise, and check desire
In it’s soaring, when you’ll woe:
Damon may in Love require
Thestyles and Laura too:
When Shepherds too ambitious are,
And Court Astrea on a Throne;
Like to the shooting of a Star,
They fall, and thus their shining’s gone.

A Song.

Set by Mr. Fishburn.

[[Listen]]

PRetty Floramel, no Tongue can ever tell,
The Charms that in thee dwell;
Those Soul-melting Pleasures,
Shou’d the mighty Jove once view, he’d be in Love,
And plunder all above,
To rain down his Treasure:
Ah! said the Nymph in the Shepherd’s Arms,
Had you half so much Love as you say I have Charms;
There’s not a Soul, created for Man and Love,
More true than Floramel wou’d prove,
I’d o’er the World with thee rove.
Love that’s truly free, had never Jealousie,
But artful Love may be
Both doubtful and wooing;
Ah! dear Shepherdess, ne’er doubt, for you may guess,
My Heart will prove no less,
Than ever endless loving:
Then cries the Nymph, like the Sun thou shalt be,
And I, like kind Earth, will produce all to thee;
Of ev’ry Flower in Love’s Garden I’ll Off’rings pay
To my Saint. Nay then pray
Take not those dear Eyes away.

---

A Song. Set by Mr. Robert King.

[[Listen]]

BY shady Woods and purling Streams,
I spend my Life in pleasing Dreams;
And would not for the World be thought
To change my false delightful Thought:
For who, alas! can happy be,
That does the Truth of all things see?
For who, alas! can happy be,
That does the Truth of all things see.

---

A Song. Sett by Mr. Henry Purcell.

[[Listen]]

IN Chloris all soft Charms agree,
Enchanting Humour pow’rful Wit;
Beauty from Affectation free,
And for Eternal Empire fit:
Where-e’er she goes, Love waits her Eyes,
The Women Envy, Men adore;
Tho’ did she less the Triumph Prize,
She wou’d deserve the Conquest more.
But Vanity so much prevails,
She begs what else none can deny her;
And with inviting treach’rous Smiles
Gives hopes which ev’n prevent desire:
Reaches at every trifling Heart,
Grows warm with ev’ry glimm’ring Flame:
And common Prey so deads her Dart,
It scarce can wound a noble Game.
I could lye Ages at her Feet,
Adore her careless of my Pain;
With tender Vows her Rigour meet,
Despair, love on, and not complain:
My Passion from all change secur’d,
Favours may rise, no Frown controuls;
I any Torment can endure,
But hoping with a crowd of Fools.

A Song. Set by Mr. Tho. Farmer.

[[Listen]]

WHEN busie Fame o’er all the Plain,
Velinda’s Praises rung;
And on their Oaten Pipes each Swain
Her matchless Beauty sung:
The Envious Nymphs were forc’d to yield
She had the sweetest Face;
No emulous disputes were held,
But for the second place.
Young Coridon, whose stubborn Heart
No Beauty e’er could move;
But smil’d at Cupid’s Bow and Dart,
And brav’d the God of Love:
Would view this Nymph, and pleas’d at first,
Such silent Charms to see:
With Wonder gaz’d, then sigh’d, and curs’d
His Curiosity.

---

A Song. Set by Mr. Fishburne.

[[Listen]]

WHy am I the only Creature,
Must a ruin’d Love pursue;
Other Passions yield to Nature,
Mine there’s nothing can subdue:
Not the Glory of Possessing,
Monarch wishes gave me ease,
More and more the mighty Blessings
Did my raging Pains encrease.
Nor could Jealousie relieve me,
Tho’ it ever waited near;
Cloath’d in gawdy Pow’r to grieve me,
Still the Monster would appear:
That, nor Time, nor Absence neither,
Nor Despair removes my Pain;
I endure them all together,
Yet my Torments still remain.
Had alone her matchless beauty,
Set my amorous Heart on Fire,
Age at last would do its Duty,
Fuel ceasing, Flames expire.
But her Mind immortal grows,
Makes my Love immortal too;
Nature ne’er created Faces,
Can the Charms of Souls undoe.
And to make my Loss the greater,
She laments it as her own;
Could she scorn me, I might hate her,
But alas! she shews me none:
Then since Fortune is my Ruin,
In Retirement I’ll Complain;
And in rage for my undoing,
Ne’er come in its Power again.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

LAurinda, who did love Disdain,
For whom had languish’d many a Swain:
Leading her bleating Flocks to drink,
She ’spy’d upon a River’s brink
A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare,
How much he lov’d, but lov’d not her.
At first she laugh’d, but gaz’d a while,
Which soon it lessen’d to a smile;
Thence to Surprize and Wonder came,
Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame:
Then cry’d she out, Ah! now I prove
Thou art a God most mighty Jove.
She would have spoke, but shame deny’d,
And bid her first consult her Pride;
But soon she found that aid was gone,
For Jove, alass! had left her none:
Ah! now she burns! but ’tis too late,
For in his Eyes she reads her Fate.

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

FAIR Cælia too fondly contemns those Delights,
Wherewith gentle Nature hath soften’d the Nights;
If she be so kind to present us with Pow’r,
The Fault is our own to neglect the good Hour:
Who gave thee this Beauty, ordain’d thou should’st be,
As kind to thy Slaves, as the Gods were to thee.
Then Cælia no longer reserve the vain Pride,
Of wronging thy self, to see others deny’d;
If Love be a Pleasure, alass! you will find,
We both are not happy, when both are most kind:
But Women, like Priests, do in others reprove,
And call that thing Lust, which in them is but Love.
What they thro’ their Madness and Folly create,
We poor silly Slaves still impute to our Fate;
But in such Distempers where Love is the Grief,
’Tis Cælia, not Heaven, must give us Relief:
Then away with those Titles of Honour and Cause,
Which first made us sin, by giving us Laws.

---

A SONG.

Set by Mr. William Turner.

[[Listen]]

I Lik’d, but never Lov’d before
I saw that charming Face;
Now every Feature I adore,
And doat on ev’ry Grace:
She ne’er shall know that kind desire,
Which her cold Looks denies,
Unless my Heart that’s all on Fire,
Should sparkle through my Eyes:
Then if no gentle Glance return,
A silent Leave to speak;
My Heart which would for ever burn,
Alass! must sigh and break.

A SONG in Valentinian.

[[Listen]]

WHERE would coy Amyntas run,
From a despairing Lover’s Story?
When her Eyes have Conquest won,
Why should her Ear refuse the Glory:
Shall a Slave, whose Racks constrain,
Be forbidden to complain;
Let her scorn me, let her Fly me,
Let her Looks, her Love deny me:
Ne’er shall my Heart yield to despair,
Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care,
Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care:
Much to love, and much to pray,
Is to Heav’n the only way.

---

A Song. Set by Mr. Pelham Humphreys.

[[Listen]]

A Wife I do hate,
For either she’s False, or she’s Jealous;
But give me a Mate,
Who nothing will ask us or tell us:
She stands at no Terms,
Nor Chaffers by way of Indenture:
Or Loves for the Farms,
But takes the kind Man at a Venture.
If all prove not right,
Without an Act, Process or Warning,
From Wife for a Night,
You may be divorc’d the next Morning,
Where Parents are Slaves,
Their Brats can’t be any other;
Great Wits and great Braves,
Have always a Punk to their Mother.

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

TELL me ye Sicilian Swains,
Why this Mourning’s o’er your Plains;
Where’s your usual Melody?
Why are all your Shepherds mad,
And your Shepherdesses sad?
What can the mighty meaning be?
Chorus. Sylvia the Glory of our Plains;
Sylvia the Love of all our Swains;
That blest us with her Smiles:
Where ev’ry Shepherd had a Heart,
And ev’ry Shepherdess a Part;
Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle,
Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

WHEN gay Philander left the Plain,
The Love, the Life of ev’ry Swain;
His Pipe the mournful Strephon took,
By some sad Bank and murm’ring Brook:
Whilst list’ning Flocks forsook their Food,
And Melancholy by him stood;
On the cold Ground himself he laid,
And thus the Mournful Shepherd play’d.
Farewel to all that’s bright and gay,
No more glad Night and chearing Day;
No more the Sun will gild our Plain,
’Till the lost Youth return again:
Then every pensive Heart that now,
With Mournful Willow shades his Brow;
Shall crown’d with chearful Garlands sing,
And all shall seem Eternal Spring.
Say, mighty Pan, if you did know,
Say all ye rural Gods below;
’Mongst all Youths that grac’d your Plain,
So gay so beautiful a Swain:
In whose sweet Air and charming Voice,
Our list’ning Swains did all Rejoyce;
Him only, O ye Gods! restore
Your Nymphs, and Shepherds ask no more.

A SONG.

Set by Mr. Tho. Kingsley.

[[Listen]]

HOW Happy’s the Mortal whose Heart is his own,
And for his own Quiet’s beholden to none,
(Eccho. Beholden to none, to none;)
That to Love’s Enchantments ne’er lendeth an Ear,
Which a Frown or a Smile can equally bear,
(Eccho. Can equally bear, can bear,)
Nor on ev’ry frail Beauty still fixes an Eye,
But from those sly Felons doth prudently fly,
(Eccho. Doth prudently, prudently fly, doth fly;)
For the Heart that still wanders is pounded at last,
And ’tis hard to relieve it when once it is fast,
(Eccho. When once it is fast, is fast.)
By sporting with Dangers still longer and longer,
The Fetters and Chains of the Captive grows stronger;
He drills on his Evil, then curses his Fate,
And bewails those Misfortunes himself did create:
Like an empty Camelion he lives on the Air,
And all the Day lingers ’twixt Hope and Despair;
Like a Fly in the Candle he sports and he Games,
’Till a Victim in Folly, he dies in the Flames.
If Love, so much talk’d of, a Heresie be,
Of all it enslaves few true Converts we see;
If hectoring and huffing would once do the Feat,
There’s few that would fail of a Vict’ry Compleat;
But with Gain to come off, and the Tyrant subdue,
Is an Art that is hitherto practis’d by few;
How easie is Freedom once had to maintain,
But Liberty lost is as hard to regain.
This driv’ling and sniv’ling, and chiming in Parts,
This wining and pining, and breaking of Hearts;
All pensive and silent in Corners to sit,
Are pretty fine Pastimes for those that want Wit:
When this Passion and Fashion doth so far abuse ’em,
It were good the State should for Pendulums use ’em;
For if Reason it seize on, and make it give o’er,
No Labour can save, or reliev’t any more.

---

A Song. Set by Mr. Henry Purcell.

[[Listen]]

A Thousand several ways I try’d,
To hide my Passion from your view;
Conscious that I should be deny’d,
Because I cannot Merit you:
Absence, the last and worst of all,
Did so encrease my wretched Pain,
That I return’d, rather to fall
By the swift Fate, by the swift Fate of your Disdain.

---

A SONG.

[[Listen]]

TO the Grove, gentle Love, let us be going,
Where the kind Spring and Wind all Day are Woing;
He with soft sighing Blasts strives to o’er-take her,
She would not tho’ she flies, have him forsake her,
But in circling Rings returning,
And in purling Whispers Mourning;
She swells and pants, as if she’d say,
Fain I would, but dare not stay.

---

A SONG.

Set by Mr. Fishburn.

[[Listen]]

TELL me no more of Flames in Love,
That common dull pretence,
Fools in Romances use to move
Soft Hearts of little Sense:
No, Strephon, I’m not such a Slave,
Love’s banish’d Power to own;
Since Interest and Convenience have
So long usurp’d his Throne.
No burning Hope or cold Despair,
Dull Groves or purling Streams,
Sighing and talking to the Air
In Love’s fantastick Dreams,
Can move my Pity or my Hate,
But Satyrist I’ll prove,
And all ridiculous create
That shall pretend to Love.
Love was a Monarch once, ’tis true,
And God-like rul’d alone,
And tho’ his Subjects were but few,
Their Hearts were all his own;
But since the Slaves revolted are,
And turn’d into a State,
Their Int’rest is their only Care,
And Love grows out of Date.

A SONG.

Set by Mr. Fishburn.

[[Listen]]

WEalth breeds Care, Love, Hope and Fear;
What does Love our Business hear?
While Bacchus merry does appear,
Fight on and fear no sinking,
Charge it briskly to the Brim,
’Till the flying Top-sails swim,
We owe the great Discovery to him
Of this new World of Drinking.
Grave Cabals that States refine,
Mingle their Debates with Wine;
Ceres and the God o’th’ Wine;
Makes every great Commander.
Let sober Sots Small-beer subdue,
The Wise and valiant Wine does woe;
The Stagyrite had the honour to
Be drunk with Alexander.
Stand to your Arms, and now Advance
A Health to the English King of France;
On to the next a bon Speranze,
By Bacchus and Apollo.
Thus in State I lead the Van,
Fall in your Place by your right-hand Man,
Beat Drum! now March! Dub a dub, ran dan,
He’s a Whig that will not follow.

---

A Song. Set by Mr. Fishburn.

[[Listen]]

THO’ Fortune and Love may be Deities still,
To those they Oblige by their Pow’r;
For my Part, they ever have us’d me so ill,
They cannot expect I’ll adore:
Hereafter a Temple to Friendship I’ll raise,
And dedicate there all the rest of my Days,
To the Goddess accepted my Vows,
To the Goddess accepted my Vows.
Thou perfectest Image of all things Divine,
Bright Center of endless Desires,
May the Glory be yours, and the Services mine,
When I light at your Altars the Fires.
I offer a Heart has Devotion so pure,
It would for your Service all Torments endure,
Might you but have all things you wish,
Might you, &c.
But yet the Goddess of Fools to despise,
I find I’m too much in her Power;
She makes me go where ’tis in vain to be wise,
In absence of her I adore:
If Love then undoes me before I get back,
I still with resignment receive the Attack,
Or languish away in Despair,
Or languish, &c.

A SONG.

Set by Mr. Henry Purcell.

[[Listen]]

HE himself courts his own Ruin,
That with too great Passion sues ’em:
When Men Whine too much in Wooing,
Women with like Coquets use ’em:
Some by this way of addressing
Have the Sex so far transported,
That they’ll fool away the Blessing
For the Pride of being Courted.
Jilt and smile when we adore ’em,
While some Blockhead buys the Favour;
Presents have more Power o’er ’em
Than all our soft Love and Labour,
Thus, like Zealots, with screw’d Faces,
We our fooling make the greater,
While we cant long winded Graces,
Others they fall to the Creature.

---

A Song. Set by Mr. Damasene.

[[Listen]]

CEase lovely Strephon, cease to charm;
Useless, alas! is all this Art;
It’s needless you should strongly arm,
To take a too, too willing Heart:
I hid my weakness all I could,
And chid my pratling tell-tale Eyes,
For fear the easie Conquest should
Take from the value of the Prize.
But oh! th’ unruly Passion grew
So fast, it could not be conceal’d,
And soon, alas! I found to you
I must without Conditions yield,
Tho’ you have thus surpriz’d my Heart,
Yet use it kindly, for you know,
It’s not a gallant Victor’s part
To insult o’er a vanquish’d Foe.

A SONG.

Set by Mr. Damasene.

[[Listen]]

YOU happy Youths, whose Hearts are free
From Love’s Imperial Chain,
Henceforth be warn’d and taught by me,
And taught by me to avoid inchanting Pain,
Fatal the Wolves to trembling Flocks,
Sharp Winds to Blossoms prove:
To careless Seamen, hidden Rocks;
To human quiet Love.
Fly the Fair-Sex, if Bliss you prize,
The Snake’s beneath the Flow’r:
Whoever gaz’d on Beauties Eyes,
That tasted Quiet more?
The Kind with restless Jealousie,
The Cruel fill with Care;
With baser Falshood those betray,
These kill us with Despair.

---

A Song. Set by Dr. Staggins.

[[Listen]]

WHEN first Amyntas charm’d my Heart,
The heedless Sheep began to stray;
The Wolves soon stole the greatest part,
And all will now be made a Prey:
Ah! let not Love your Thoughts possess,
’Tis fatal to a Shepherdess;
The dangerous Passion you must shun,
Or else like me, be quite undone.

---