At Communion;

Who thrusting up his hand

Never made a stand

Till he came where her f—— had union;

She without all terrour,

Thought it no errour,

But did laugh till the tears down did trickle,

Ha, ha, ha, Rotundus, Rotundus, ’tis you that my spleen doth tickle.

It is likewise in the Rump collection, i. 223, 1662; Loyal Sgs., i. 131, 1731.

[Page 139 (orig. 47).] I’s not come here to tauk of Prut.