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.
