Come hither, Apollo's bouncing girl,
And in a whole Hippocrene of sherry
Let 's drink a round till our brains do whirl,
Tuning our pipes to make ourselves merry.
A Cambridge lass, Venus-like, born of the froth
Of an old half-filled jug of barley-broth,
She, she is my mistress, her suitors are many,
But she'll have a Square-cap if e'er she have any.
And first, for the plush-sake, the Monmouth-cap comes,
10Shaking his head like an empty bottle;