THE Jolly, Jolly Bowl,
That does quench my thirsty Soul;
When all the mingling Juice is thrown,
Perfum’d with fragrant Goar Stone:
With it’s wanton Toast too, curling,
Curling, curling, curling, curling the Nut-brown Riles,
Which down, down, down, down by the Gills,
Run through ruby Swallows purling.
The PROLOGUE in the Island-Princess,
Set and Sung by Mr. Leveridge.
[[Listen]]
YOu’ve been with dull Prologues here banter’d so long,
They signify nothing, or less than a Song;
To sing you a Ballad this Tune we thought fit,
For Sound has oft nickt you, when Sence could not hit:
Then Ladies be kind, and Gentlemen mind,
Wit Capers, play Sharpers, loud Bullies, tame Cullies,
Sow grumblers, Wench Fumblers give ear ev’ry Man:
Mobb’d Sinners in Pinners, kept Foppers, Bench-hoppers,
High-Flyers, Pit-Plyers, be still if you can:
You’re all in Damnation, you’re all in Damnation for Leading the Van.
Ye Side-Box Gallants, whom the vulgar call Beaus,
Admirers of Self, and nice Judges of Cloaths;
Who now the War’s over cross boldly the Main,
Yet ne’er were at Seiges, unless at Campaign:
Spare all on the Stage, Love in every Age,
Young Tattles, Wild Rattles, Fan-Tearers, Mask-Fleerers,
Old Coasters, Love boasters, who set up for Truth:
Young Graces, Black Faces, some Faded, some Jaded,
Old Mothers, and others, who’ve yet a Colt’s Tooth:
See us Act that in Winter, you’d all Act in Youth.
You Gallery Haunters, who love to lye snug,
And maunch Apples or Cakes, while some Neighbour you hugg;
Ye lofties, Genteels, who above us all sit,
And look down with Contempt, on the Mob in the Pit,
Here’s what you like best, Jigg, Song and the rest,
Free Laughers, close Graffers, dry Jokers, old Soakers,
Kind Cousins, by Dozens, your Customs don’t break:
Sly Spouses with Blouses, grave Horners, in Corners,
Kind No-wits, save Poets, clap ’till your Hands ake,
And tho’ the Wits Damn us, we’ll say the Whims take.