With Pye-crust wee’l make thee
The eighth wise man to be;
But O! the cold Chyne, the cold Chyne for me:
Chorus.
How shall I sing, how shall I look,
In honour of the Master-Cook?
[p. 56.]
A Song of Cupid Scorn’d.
In love[?] away, you do me wrong,
I hope I ha’ not liv’d so long