MoboReader > Literature > Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy, Vol. 5 of 6

   Chapter 7 No.7

Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy, Vol. 5 of 6 By Various Characters: 188472

Updated: 2017-12-06 00:03

And lastly, for the better State and Magnificence of the honourable Corporation of W--es, 'tis order'd that a Chariot be made to be drawn by Cuckolds, the Cuckold-makers to drive, and the Wittals to ride.

* * *

The well approved Doctor:

Or, an Infallible Cure for Cuckolds. To

the foregoing Tune.

THERE is a fine Doctor now come to Town,

Whose practice in Physick hath gain'd him Renown,

In curing of Cuckolds he hath the best Skill,

By giving one Dose of his approved Pill.

His Skill is well known, and his Practice is great,

Then come to the Doctor before 'tis too late;

His Med'cines are safe, and the Doctor is sure,

He takes none in Hand but he perfects, the Cure.

The Doctor himself he doth freely unfold,

That he can Cure Cuckolds tho' never so old;

He helps this Distemper in all sorts of Men,

At Forty and Fifty, yea, Threescore and Ten.

There was an old Man lived near to the Strand,

Decripid and Feeble, scarce able to stand;

Who had been a Cuckold full Forty long Years,

But hearing of this how he prick'd up his Ears.

Away to the Doctor he went with all speed,

Where he struck a bargain, they soon were agreed;

He cured his Forehead that nothing was seen,

And now he's as brisk as a Youth of Fifteen.

Now this being known, how his Fame it did ring,

And unto the Doctor much trading did bring;

They came to the Doctor out of e'ery Shire,

From all Parts and Places, yea both far and near.

Both Dutchmen and Scotchmen to London did ride,

With Shonny-ap-Morgan, and Thousands beside;

Thus all sorts and sizes, both rich Men and poor,

They came in whole Cart-loads to this Doctor's door.

Some whining, some weeping, some careful and sad,

And some was contented, and others born mad;

Some crooked, some straight Horns, and some overgrown,

The like in all Ages I think was ne'er known.

Some rich and brave flourishing Cuckolds were there,

That came in whole Droves, Sir, as if to Horn-Fair;

For now there is hopes to be cur'd of their Grief,

The Doctor declares in the Fall of the Leaf.

Let none be so foolish as now to neglect,

This Doctor's great Kindness and civil Respect;

Tho' rich Men may pay, yet the Poor may go free,

So kind and so courteous a Doctor is he.

'Tis known he so worthy a Conscience doth make,

Poor Cuckolds he'll cure them for Charity sake;

Nay, farther than this still his Love does enlarge,

Providing for them at his own Cost and Charge.

But some are so wicked, that they will exclaim

Against their poor Wives, making 'em bare the Blame;

And will not look out in the least for a Cure,

But all their sad Pains and their Tortures endure.

But 'tis without reason, for he that is born

Under such a Planet, is Heir to the Horn:

Then come to the Doctor both rich Men and Poor,

He'll carefully cure you, what would you have more?

The Term of his Time here the Doctor does write,

From six in the Morning 'till seven at Night;

Where in his own Chamber he still will remain,

At the Sign of the Woodcock in Vinegar-lane.

* * *

The Doctor doth here likewise present you with the Receipt of his Infallible Medicine, that those which have no occasion for it themselves, may do good to their Neighbours and Acquaintances: And take it here as followeth.

TAKE five Pound of Brains of your December Flies,

And forty true Tears from a Crocodile's Eyes;

The Wit of a Weasel, the Wool of a Frog,

With an Ounce of Conserve of Michaelmas Fog.

And make him a Poultis when he goes to Bed,

To bind to his Temples behind of his Head;

As hot as the Patient he well can endure,

And this is for Cuckolds an absolute Cure.

A Song.

GOOD Neighbour why do you look awry,

You are a wond'rous Stranger;

You walk about, you huff and pout,

As if you'd burst with Anger:

Is it for that your Fortune's great,

Or you so Wealthy are?

Or live so high there's none a-nigh

That can with you compare?

But t'other Day I heard one say,

Your Husband durst not show his Ears,

But like a Lout does walk about,

So full of Sighs and Fears:

Good Mrs. Tart, I caren't a Fart,

For you nor all your Jears.

My Husband's known for to be one,

That is most Chast and pure;

And so would be continually,

But for such Jades as you are:

You wash, you lick, you smug, you trick,

You toss a twire a grin;

You nod and wink, and in his Drink,

You strive to draw him in:

You Lie you Punck, you're always Drunk,

And now you Scold and make a Strife,

And like a Whore you run o' th' Score,

And lead him a weary Life;

Tell me so again you dirty Quean,

And I'll pull you by the Quoif.

Go dress those Brats, those nasty Rats,

That have a Lear so drowzy;

With Vermin spread they look like Dead,

Good Faith they're always Lousie:

Pray hold you there, and do not swear,

You are not half so sweet;

You feed yours up with bit and sup,

And give them a dirty Teat:

My Girls, my Boys, my only Joys,

Are better fed and taught than yours;

You lie you Flirt, you look like Dirt,

And I'll kick you out of Doors;

A very good Jest, pray do your best,

And Faith I'll quit your Scores.

Go, go you are a nasty Bear,

Your Husband cannot bear it;

A nasty Quean as e'er was seen,

Your Neighbours all can swear it:

A fulsome Trot and good for nought,

Unless it be to chat;

You stole a Spoon out of the Room,

Last Christning you were at:

You lye you Bitch you've got the Itch,

Your Neighbours know you are not sound;

Look how you Claw with your nasty Paw,

And I'll fell you to the Ground;

You've tore my Hood, you shall make it good

If it cost me Forty Pound.

* * *

The Jovial Cobler of St. Hellens.


I am a jovial Cobler bold and brave,

And as for Employment enough I have:

For to keep jogging my Hammer and Awl,

Whilst I sit Singing and Whistling in my Stall,

Stall, Stall, whilst I sit Singing and Whistling in my Stall.

But there's Dick the Carman, and Hodge who drives the Dray

For Sixteen, or Eighteen Pence a Day,

Slave in the Dirt, whilst I with my Awl,

Get more Money, sitting, sitting in my Stall, &c.

And there's Tom the Porter, Companion of the Pot,

Who stands in the Street with his Rope and Knot,

Waiting at a Corner to hear who will him call,

Whilst I am getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

And there's the jolly Broom-man, his Bread for to get,

Crys Brooms up and down in the open Street,

And one crys broken Glasses tho' ne'er so small,

Whilst I am getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

And there's another gang of poor smutty Souls,

Doth trudge up and down to cry Small-coals;

With a Sack on their Back, at a Door stand and call,

Whilst I am getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

And there's another sort of Notes,

Who crys up and down old Suits and Coats;

And perhaps some Days get nothing at all,

Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

And there's the Jolly Cooper with his Hoops at his Back,

Who trudgeth up and down to see who lack

Their Casks to be made tite, with Hoops great and small,

Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

And there's a Jolly Tinker that loves a bonny Lass,

Who trudges up and down to mend old Brass;

With his long smutty Punch to force holes withal,

Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

And there is another old Tom Terrah,

Who up and down the City drives his Barrow;

To sell his Fruit both great and small,

Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

And there is the Blind and Lame, with a Wooden Leg,

Who up and down the City they forced are to beg

Some Crumbs of Comfort, the which are but small,

Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

And there's a gang of Wenches who Oysters sell,

And Powder Moll with her sweet smell;

She trudges up and down with Powder and Ball,

Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

And there's the jovial Girls with their Milking-Pails,

Who trudge up and down with their Draggle Tails:

Flip flapping at their Heels for Custom they call,

Whilst I sit getting Money, Money in my Stall, &c.

'Tis these are the Gang who take great Pain,

And it is those who do me maintain;

But when it blows and rains I do pity them all,

To see them trudge about while I am in my Stall, &c.

And there's many more who slave and toil,

Their living to get, but it is not worth while,

To mention them, so I'll sing in my Stall,

I am the happiest Mortal, Mortal of them all,

All, all, I am the happiest Mortal, Mortal of them all.

The Merchant and the Fidler's Wife.


IT was a Rich Merchant Man,

That had both Ship and all;

And he would cross the salt Seas,

Tho' his cunning it was but small.

The Fidler and his Wife,

They being nigh at hand;

Would needs go sail along with him,

From Dover unto Scotland.

The Fidler's Wife look'd brisk,

Which made the Merchant smile;

He made no doubt to bring it about,

The Fidler to beguile.

Is this thy Wife the Merchant said,

She looks like an honest Spouse;

Ay that she is, the Fidler said,

That ever trod on Shoes.

Thy Confidence is very great,

The Merchant then did say;

If thou a Wager darest to bet,

I'll tell thee what I will lay.

I'll lay my Ship against thy Fiddle,

And all my Venture too;

So Peggy may gang along with me,

My Cabin for to View.

If she continues one Hour with me,

Thy true and constant Wife;

Then shalt thou have my Ship and be,

A Merchant all thy Life.

The Fidler was content,

He Danc'd and Leap'd for joy;

And twang'd his Fiddle in merriment,

For Peggy he thought was Coy.

Then Peggy she went along,

His Cabin for to View;

And after her the Merchant-Man,

Did follow, we found it true.

When they were once together,

The Fidler was afraid;

For he crep'd near in pitious fear,

And thus to Peggy he said.

Hold out, sweet Peggy hold out,

For the space of two half Hours;

If thou hold out, I make no doubt,

But the Ship and Goods are ours.

In troth, sweet Robin, I cannot,

He hath got me about the Middle;

He's lusty and strong, and hath laid me along,

O Robin thou'st lost thy Fiddle.

If I have lost my Fiddle,

Then am I a Man undone;

My Fiddle whereon I so often play'd,

Away I needs must run.

O stay the Merchant said,

And thou shalt keep thy place;

And thou shalt have thy Fiddle again,

But Peggy shall carry the Case.

Poor Robin hearing that,

He look'd with a Merry-chear;

His wife she was pleas'd, and the Merchant was eas'd,

And jolly and brisk they were.

The Fidler he was mad,

But valu'd it not a Fig;

Then Peggy unto her Husband said,

Kind Robin play us a Jigg.

Then he took up his Fiddle,

And merrily he did play;

The Scottish Jigg and the Horn pipe,

And eke the Irish Hey.

It was but in vain to grieve,

The Deed it was done and past;

Poor Robin was born to carry the Horn,

For Peggy could not be Chast.

Then Fidlers all beware,

Your Wives are kind you see;

And he that's made for the Fidling Trade,

Must never a Merchant be.

For Peggy she knew right well,

Although she was but a Woman;

That Gamesters Drink, and Fidlers Wives,

They are ever Free and Common.

The Unconstant Woman.


DID you not hear of a gallant Sailor,

Whose Pockets they were lin'd with Gold;

He fell in Love with a pretty Creature,

As I to you the Truth unfold:

With a kind Salute, and without Dispute,

He thought to gain her for his own,

Unconstant Woman proves true to no Man,

She has gone and left me all alone.

Don't you remember my pretty Peggy,

The Oaths and Vows which you made to me:

All in the Chamber we were together,

That you would ne'er unconstant be:

But you prove strange Love, and from me range,

And leave me here to Sigh and Moan;

Unconstant Woman is true to no Man,

She's gone and left me all alone.

As I have Gold you shall have Treasure,

Or any dainty kind of thing;

Thou may'st command all Delights and Pleasure,

And what you'd have, Love, I would you bring:

But you prove shy, and at last deny,

Him that admires you alone;

Unconstant Woman proves true to no Man,

She's left me here to make my moan.

When first I saw your charming Beauty,

I stood like one all in amaze;

I study'd only how to pay Duty,

And could not speak but only gaze,

At last said I, fair Maid comply,

And ease a wretched Lover's Moan;

Unconstant Woman proves true to no Man,

She's gone and left me here alone.

I made her Presents of Rings and Jewels,

With Diamond Stones I gave her too;

She took them kindly, and call'd me Jewel,

And said her Love to me was true:

But in the end she prov'd unkind,

When I thought she had been my own;

Unconstant Woman, &c.

For three Months time we saw each other,

And she oft said she'd be my Wife;

I had her Father's Consent and Mother,

I thought to have liv'd a happy Life:

She'd laugh and toy both Night and Day,

But at length she chang'd her Tone;

Unconstant Woman, proves true to no Man,

She's left me now to make my Moan.

Many a time we have walk'd together,

Both Hand in Hand to an Arbour green;

Where Tales of Love in Sun-shiny Weather,

We did discourse and were not seen:

With a kind Salute we did dispute,

While we together were alone:

Unconstant Woman she's true to no Man,

She's gone and left me here alone.

Since Peggy has my kindness slighted,

I'll never trust a Woman more;

'Twas in her alone I e'er delighted,

But since she's false I'll leave the Shoar:

In Ship I'll enter, on Seas I'll venture,

And sail the World where I'm not known:

Unconstant Woman proves true to no Man,

She's gone and left me here alone.

Sorrow banish'd in a Mug. The Words

by Sir Edward Morgan.


IF Sorrow the Tyrant invade thy Breast,

Haul out the foul Fiend by the Lug, the Lug,

Let nought of to morrow disturb thy Rest,

But dash out his Brains with a Mug, a Mug.

If Business unluckily goes not well,

Let the fond Fools their Affections hug,

To shew our Allegiance we'll go to the Bell,

And banish Despair in a Mug, a Mug.

If thy Wife proves not one of the Best, the Best,

But admits no time but to think, to think;

Or the weight of thy Forehead bow down thy Crest,

Divert the dull Damon with Drink, with Drink,

If Miss prove peevish and will not gee,

Ne'er pine, ne'er pine at the wanton Pug,

But find out a fairer, a kinder than she,

And banish Dispair in a Mug, a Mug.

If dear Assignation be crost, be crost,

And Mistress go home in a rage, a rage;

Let not thy poor Heart like a Ship be tost,

But with a brisk Brimmer engage, engage:

What if the fine Fop and the Mask fall out.

And the one Hug, and t'other Tug,

While they pish and fie, we will frolick in Stout,

And banish all Care in a Mug, a Mug.

If toying young Damon by Sylvia's Charms,

At length should look pale and perplexed be;

To cure the Distemper and ease those harms,

Go straight to the Globe and ask Number three:

There beauties like Venus thou canst not lack,

Be kind to them, they will sweetly hug;

There's choice of the Fairest, the Brown or the Black.

Then banish Despair in a Mug, a Mug.

Let then no Misfortune e'er make thee dull,

But drink away care in a Jug, a Jug;

Then let not thy Tide steal away, but pull,

Carouse away though in a Mug, a Mug:

While others for Greatness and Fortune's doom,

While they for their Ambition tug;

We'll sit close and snug in a Sea-coal Room,

And banish Despair in a Mug, a Mug.

Let Zealots o'er Coffee new Plots devise,

And lace with fresh Treason the Pagan Drug;

Whilst our Loyal Blood flows our Veins shall shine,

Like our Faces inspir'd with a Mug, a Mug:

Let Sectaries dream of Alarms, Alarms,

And Fools still for new changes tug;

While fam'd for our Loyalty we'll stand to our Arms,

And drink the King's Health in a Mug, a Mug.

Come then to the Queen let the next Advance,

And all Loyal Lads of true English Race;

Who hate the stum Poison of Spain and France,

Or to Bourdeux or Burgundy do give place;

The Flask and the Bottle breeds Ach and Gout,

Whilst we, we all the Season lie snug;

Neither Spaniard nor Flemming, can vie with our Stout,

And shall submit to the Mug, the Mug.

* * *

The Good Fellow. Words by Mr.

Alex. Brome.


STay, stay, shut the Gates,

T'other Quart, faith, it is not so late

As you're thinking,

Those Stars which you see,

In this Hemisphere be,

But the Studs in your Cheeks by your Drinking:

The Sun is gone to Tiple all Night in the Sea Boys,

To Morrow he'll blush that he's paler than we Boys,

Drink Wine, give him Water, 'tis Sack makes us jee Boys.

Fill, fill up the Glass,

To the next merry Lad let it pass,

Come away with't:

Come Set Foot to Foot,

And but give our Minds to't,

'Tis Heretical Six that doth slay Wit,

No Helicon like to the Juice of the Vine is,

For Ph?bus had never had Wit, nor Diviness,

Had his Face been bow dy'd as thine, his, and mine is.

Drink, drink off your Bowls,

We'll enrich both our Heads and our Souls

With Canary;

A Carbuncled Face,

Saves a tedious Race,

For the Indies about us we carry:

Then hang up good Faces, we'll drink till our Noses

Give freedom to speak what our Fancy disposes,

Beneath whose protection is under the Roses.

This, this must go round,

Off your Hats, till that the Pavement be Crown'd

With your Beavers;

A Red-coated Face,

Frights a Searjeant at Mace,

And the Constable trembles to shivers:

In state march our Faces like those of the Quorum,

When the Wenches fall down and the Vulgar adore'em,

And our Noses, like Link-boys, run shining before'em.

The Nymphs Holiday. The Tune of the



UPon a Holiday, when Nymphs had leave to play,

I walk'd unseen, on a pleasant Green,

Where I heard a Maid in an angry Spleen,

Complaining to a Swain, to leave his drudging Pain,

And sport with her upon the Plain;

But he the silly Clown,

Regardless of her Moan, did leave her all alone,

Still she cry'd, come away, come away bonny Lad come away,

I cannot come, I will not come, I cannot come, my

Work's not done,

Was all the Words this Clown did say.

She vex'd in her Mind to hear this Lad's reply,

To Venus she went, in great Discontent,

To desire her Boy with his Bow ready bent,

To take a nimble Dart, and strike him to the Heart,

For disobeying her Commandment:

Cupid then gave the Swain such a Bang,

As made him to gang with this bonny Lass along,

Still she cry'd, come away, come away bonny Lad, come hither,

I come, I come, I come, I come, I come, I come,

So they gang'd along together.

* * *

Good Honest Trooper take warning by Donald Cooper. To the Tune of Daniel Cooper.


A Bonny Lad came to the Court,

His Name was Donald Cooper,

And he Petition'd to the King,

That he might be a Trooper:

He said that he,

By Land and Sea,

Had fought to Admiration,

And with Montross

Had many blows,

Both for his King and Nation.

The King did his Petition grant,

And said he lik'd him dearly,

Which gave to Donald more content,

Than Twenty Shillings yearly:

This wily Leard

Rode in the Guard,

And lov'd a strong Beer Barrel;

Yet stout enough,

To Fight and Cuff,

But was not given to Quarrel.

Till on a Saturday at Night,

He walked in the Park, Sir;

And there he kenn'd a well fair Lass,

When it was almost dark, Sir;

Poor Donald he

Drew near to see,

And kist her bonny Mow, Sir;

He laid her flat

Upon her back,

And bang'd her side Weam too, Sir.

He took her by the Lilly white Hand,

And kiss'd his bonny Mary,

Then they did to the Tavern go,

Where they did drink Canary;

When he was Drunk,

In came a Punck,

And ask'd gan he would Mow her;

Then he again,

With Might and Main,

Did bravely lay her o'er, Sir.

Poor Donald he rose up again,

As nothing did him ail, Sir;

But little kenn'd this bonny Lass,

Had Fire about her Tail, Sir:

When Night was spent

Then Home he went,

And told it with a Hark, Sir;

How he did Kiss

A dainty Miss,

And lifted up the Sark, Sir.

But e'er a Month had gone about,

Poor Donald walked sadly:

And every yean enquir'd of him,

What gar'd him leuk so badly:

A Wench, quoth he,

Gave Snuff to me,

Out of her Placket box, Sir;

And I am sure,

She prov'd a Whore,

And given to me the Pox, Sir.

Poor Donald he being almost Dead,

Was turn'd out of the Guard, Sir;

And never could get in again,

Although he was a Leard, Sir:

When Mars doth meet,

With Venus sweet,

And struggles to surrender;

The Triumph's lost,

Then never trust

A Feminine Commander.

Poor Donald he went home again,

Because he lost his Place, Sir;

For playing of a Game at Whisk,

And turning up an Ace, Sir;

Ye Soldiers all,

Both great and small,

A Foot-man or a Trooper;

When you behold,

A Wench that's bold

Remember Donald Cooper.

* * *

The Jovial Drinker.


A Pox on those Fools, who exclaim against Wine,

And fly the dear sweets that the Bottle doth bring;

It heightens the Fancy, the Wit does refine,

And he that was first Drunk was made the first King.

By the help of good Claret old Age becomes Youth,

And sick Men still find this the only Physitian;

Drink largely, you'll know by experience, the Truth,

That he that drinks most is the best Politician.

To Victory this leads on the brave Cavalier,

And makes all the Terrors of War, but Delight;

This flushes his Courage, and beats off base Fear,

'Twas that taught C?sar and Pompey to fight.

This supports all our Friends, and knocks down our Foes,

This makes us all Loyal Men from Courtier to Clown;

Like Dutchmen from Brandy, from this our Strength grows

So 'tis Wine, noble Wine, that's a Friend to the Crown.

* * *

The Sexton's SONG.

Sung by Ben. Johnson, in the Play of Hamlet Prince of Denmark, acting the Grave maker.


ONce more to these Arms my lov'd Pick-ax and Spade,

With the rest of the Tools that belong to my Trade;

I that Buried others am rose from the Dead,

With a Ring, a Ring, Ring, a Ring, and Dig a Dig, Dig.

My Thoughts are grown easie, my Mind is at rest,

Since Things at the worst are now grown to the best,

And I and the Worms that long fasted shall Feast,

With a Ring, &c.

How I long to be Measuring and cleaving the Ground,

And commending the Soil for the Sculls shall be found,

Whose thickness alone, not the Soil makes them sound,

With a Ring, &c.

Look you Masters, I'll cry, may the Saints ne'er me save,

If this ben't as well contriv'd sort of a Grave,

As a Man could wish on such occasion to have,

With a Ring, &c.

Observe but the make of't, I'll by you be try'd,

And the Coffin so fresh there that lies on that side,

It's Fifty Years since he that owns it has dy'd.

With a Ring, &c.

I hope to remember your Friend in a Bowl,

An honest good Gentleman, God rest his Soul,

He has that for a Ducket is worth a Pistole,

With a Ring, &c.

At Marriages next I'll affirm it and swear,

If the Bride would be private so great was my Care,

That not a Soul knew that the Priest joyn'd the Pair,

With a Ring, &c.

When I myself whisper'd and told it about

What Door they'd go in at, what Door they'd go out,

To receive the Salutes of the Rabble and Rout,

With a Ring, &c.

At Chris'nings I'll sit with abundance of Joy,

And Drink to the Health of the Girl or the Boy,

At the same I wish that Fate both would destroy,

That I may Ring, &c.

What e'er's my Religion, my Meaning's to Thrive,

So the Child that is born, to the Font but survive,

No matter how short it's continuance alive,

That I may Ring, &c.

Hear then my good Neighbours attend to my cry,

And bravely get Children, and decently die,

No Sexton now breathing shall use you as I,

With a Ring a Ring, Ring a Ring, Dig a Dig, Dig.

* * *

The Great BOOBEE.


MY Friend if you would understand,

My Fortunes what they are;

I once had Cattle House and Land,

But now I am never the near:

My Father left a good Estate,

As I may tell to thee;

I couzened was of all I had,

Like a great Boobee.

I went to School with a good intent,

And for to learn my Book;

And all the Day I went to play,

In it I never did look:

Full seven Years, or very nigh,

As I may tell to thee;

I could hardly say my Criss-Cross-Row,

Like a great Boobee.

My Father then in all the hast,

Did set me to the Plow;

And for to lash the Horse about,

Indeed I knew not how:

My Father took his Whip in Hand,

And soundly lashed me;

He called me Fool and Country Clown,

And a great Boobee.

But I did from my Father run,

For I would Plow no more;

Because he had so lashed me,

And made my sides so sore:

But I will go to London Town,

Some Fashions for to see;

When I came there they call'd me Clown,

And a great Boobee.

But as I went along the Street,

I carried my Hat in my Hand,

And to every one that I did meet,

I bravely Buss'd my Hand:

Some did laugh, and some did scoff,

And some did mock at me;

And some did say I was a Woodcock,

And a great Boobee.

Then I did walk in hast to Paul's

The Steeple for to view;

Because I heard some People say,

It should be builded new;

Then I got up unto the Top,

The City for to see;

It was so high it made me cry,

Like a great Boobee.

From thence I went to Westminster,

And for to see the Tombs:

Oh, said I, what a House is here,

With an infinite sight of Rooms:

Sweetly the Abby Bells did Ring,

It was a fine sight to see;

Methought I was going to Heav'n in a String,

Like a great Boobee.

But as I went along the Street,

The most part of the Day;

Many Gallants I did meet,

Methought they were very gay:

I blew my Nose and pist my Hose,

Some People did me see:

They said I was a Beastly Fool:

And a great Boobee.

Next Day I thro' Pye-corner past,

The Roast-meat on the Stall;

Invited me to take a Taste,

My Money was but small:

The Meat I pickt, the Cook me kickt,

As I may tell to thee;

He beat me sore and made me roar,

Like a great Boobee.

As I thro' Smithfield lately walkt,

A gallant Lass I met:

Familiarly with me she talk't,

Which I cannot forget:

She proferr'd me a Pint of Wine,

Methought she was wondrous free,

To the Tavern then I went with her,

Like a great Boobee.

She told me we were near of Kin,

And call'd for Wine good store;

Before the Reckoning was brought in,

My Cousin prov'd a Whore:

My Purse she pickt, and went away,

My Cousin couzened me,

The Vintner kickt me out of Door;

Like a great Boobee.

At the Exchange when I came there,

I saw most gallant things;

I thought the Pictures living were,

Of all our English Kings:

I doft my Hat and made a Leg,

And kneeled on my Knee;

The People laugh'd and call'd me Fool,

And a great Boobee.

To Paris-Garden then I went,

Where there is great resort;

My Pleasure was my Punishment,

I did not like the Sport:

The Garden-Bull with his stout Horns,

On high then tossed me;

I did bewray my self with fear,

Like a great Boobee.

The Bearward went to save me then,

The People flock'd about;

I told the Bear-Garden-Men,

My Guts they were almost out:

They said I stunk most grievously,

No Man would pity me;

They call'd me witless Fool and Ass,

And a great Boobee.

Then o'er the water I did pass,

As you shall understand;

I dropt into the Thames, alass,

Before I came to Land:

The Waterman did help me out,

And thus did say to me;

'Tis not thy fortune to be drown'd,

Like a great Boobee.

But I have learned so much Wit,

Shall shorten all my Cares;

If I can but a Licence get,

To play before the Bears:

'Twould be a gallant Place indeed,

As I may tell to thee:

Then who dares call me Fool or Ass,

Or great Boobee.

* * *

Set by Mr. Jeremiah Clark,

Sung by Mr. Leveridge.


WHen Maids live to Thirty, yet never repented,

When Europe's at Peace and all England contented,

When Gamesters won't Swear, and no bribery thrives,

Young Wives love old Husbands, young Husbands old Wives;

When Landlords love Taxes, and Soldiers love Peace:

And Lawyers forget a rich Client to Fleece:

When an old Face shall please as well as a new,

Wives, Husbands, and Lovers will ever be true.

When Bullies leave huffing and Cowards their Trembling,

And Courtiers and Women and Priests their Dissembling,

When these shall do nothing against what they teach,

Pluralities hate, and we mind what they Preach:

When Vintners leave Brewing to draw the Wine pure,

And Quacks by their Medicines kill less than they Cure,

When an old Face shall please as well as a new,

Wives, Husbands and Lovers will ever be true.

Words to a Tune of Mr. Barret's, call'd

the Catherine.


IN the pleasant Month of May,

When the merry, merry Birds began to sing;

And the Blossoms fresh and gay;

Usher'd in the welcome Spring,

When the long cold Winter's gone,

And the bright enticing Moon,

In the Evening sweetly shon:

When the bonny Men and Maids tript it on the Grass;

At a jolly Country Fair,

When the Nymphs in the best appear;

We resolv'd to be free, with a Fiddle and a She,

E'ery Shepherd and his Lass.

In the middle of the Sport,

When the Fiddle went brisk and the Glass went round,

And the Pretty gay Nymphs for Court,

With their Merry Feet beat the Ground;

Little Cupid arm'd unseen,

With a Bow and Dart stole in,

With a conquering Air and Mien,

And empty'd his Bow thro' the Nymphs and the Swains;

E'ery Shepherd and his Mate,

Soon felt their pleasing Fate,

And longing to try in Enjoyment to die,

Love reign'd o'er all the Plains.

Now the sighing Swain gave o'er,

And the wearied Nymphs could dance no more,

There were other Thoughts that mov'd,

E'ery pretty kind Pair that Lov'd:

In the Woods the Shepherds lay,

And mourn'd the time away,

And the Nymphs as well as they,

Long'd to taste what it is that their Senses cloys,

Till at last by consent of Eyes,

E'ery Swain with his pretty Nymph flies,

E'ery Buxom She retires with her He,

To act Love's solid Joys.

* * *

A Scotch Song. Sung by Mrs. Lucas at

the Old Theatre.


BY Moon-light on the Green,

Our bonny Lasses Cooing;

And dancing there I've seen,

Who seem'd alone worth Wooing:

Her Skin like driven Snow,

Her Hair brown as a Berry:

Her Eyes black as a Slow,

Her Lips red as a Cherry.

Oh how she tript it, skipt it,

Leapt it, stept it, whiskt it,

Friskt it, whirld it, twirl'd it,

Swimming, springing, starting:

So quick, the tune to nick,

With a heave and a toss:

And a jerk at parting,

With a heave, and a toss, and a jerk at parting.

As she sat down I bowed,

And veil'd my bonnet to her;

Then took her from the Crowd,

With Honey words to woo her;

Sweet blithest Lass, quoth I,

It being bleaky Weather:

I prithee let us try,

Another Dance together;

Oh how she, &c.

Whilst suing thus I stood,

Quoth she, pray leave your fooling;

Some Dancing heats the Blood,

But yours I fear lacks cooling:

Still for a Dance I pray'd,

And we at last had Seven;

And whilst the Fiddle play'd,

She thought her self in Heaven,

Oh how she, &c.

At last she with a Smile,

To Dance again desir'd me;

Quoth I, pray stay a while,

For now good faith ye've tir'd me:

With that she look'd on me,

And sigh'd with muckle sorrow;

Than gang ye'ar gate, quoth she,

But Dance again to morrow.

* * *

The Quaker's Song. Sung by Mrs. Willis

at the New Play-House.


AMongst the pure ones all,

Which Conscience doth profess;

And yet that sort of Conscience,

Doth practice nothing less:

I mean the Sect of those Elect,

That loath to live by Merit;

That leads their Lives with other Mens Wives,

According unto the Spirit.

One met with a Holy Sister of ours,

A Saint who dearly lov'd him:

And fain he would have kiss'd her,

Because the Spirit mov'd him:

But she deny'd, and he reply'd,

You're damn'd unless you do it;

Therefore consent, do not repent,

For the Spirit doth move me to it.

She not willing to offend, poor Soul,

Yielded unto his Motion;

And what these two did intend,

Was out of pure Devotion:

To lye with a Friend and a Brother,

She thought she shou'd die no Sinner,

But e'er five Months were past,

The Spirit was quick within her.

But what will the Wicked say,

When they shall here of this Rumour;

They'd laugh at us every Day,

And Scoff us in every Corner:

Let 'em do so still if that they will,

We mean not to follow their Fashion,

They're none of our Sect, nor of our Elect,

Nor none of our Congregation.

But when the time was come,

That she was to be laid;

It was no very great Crime,

Committed by her they said:

'Cause they did know, and she did show,

'Twas done by a Friend and a Brother,

But a very great Sin they said it had been,

If it had been done by another.

* * *

A Song.


AS Oyster Nan stood by her Tub,

To shew her vicious Inclination;

She gave her noblest Parts a Scrub,

And sigh'd for want of Copulation:

A Vintner of no little Fame,

Who excellent Red and White can sell ye,

Beheld the little dirty Dame,

As she stood scratching of her Belly.

Come in, says he, you silly Slut,

'Tis now a rare convenient Minute;

I'll lay the Itching of your Scut,

Except some greedy Devil be in it:

With that the Flat-capt Fusby smil'd,

And would have blush'd, but that she cou'd not;

Alass! says she, we're soon beguil'd,

By Men to do those things we shou'd not.

From Door they went behind the Bar,

As it's by common Fame reported;

And there upon a Turkey Chair,

Unseen the loving Couple sported:

But being call'd by Company,

As he was taking pains to please her;

I'm coming, coming Sir, says he,

My Dear, and so am I, says she, Sir.

Her Mole-hill Belly swell'd about,

Into a Mountain quickly after;

And when the pretty Mouse crept out,

The Creature caus'd a mighty Laughter:

And now she has learnt the pleasing Game,

Altho' much Pain and Shame it cost her;

She daily ventures at the same,

And shuts and opens like an Oyster.

The Irish Jigg: Or, the Night Ramble.


ONE Night in my Ramble I chanc'd to see,

A thing like a Spirit, it frightened me;

I cock'd up my Hat and resolv'd to look big,

And streight fell a Tuning the Irish Jigg.

The Devil drew nearer and nearer in short,

I found it was one of the Petticoat sort;

My Fears being over, I car'd not a Fig,

But still I kept tuning the Irish Jigg.

And then I went to her, resolving to try her;

I put her agog of a longing desire;

I told her I'd give her a Whip for her Gig,

And a Scourge to the Tune of the Irish Jigg.

Then nothing but Dancing our Fancy could please,

We lay on the Grass and Danc'd at our ease;

I down'd with my Breeches and off with my Whigg,

And we fell a Dancing the Irish Jigg.

I thank you, kind Sir, for your kindness, said she,

The Scholar's as Wise as the Master can be;

For if you should chance to get me with Kid,

I'll lay the poor Brat to the Irish Jigg.

The Dance being ended as you may see,

We rose by Consent and we both went away;

I put on my Cloaths and left her to grow big,

And so I went Roaring the Irish Jigg.

* * *



IT was a happy Golden Day,

When fair Althea Kind and Gay,

Put all but Love and me away;

I arm'd with soft Words did Address,

Sweet and kind Kisses far express,

A greater Joy and Happiness.

Nature the best Instructeress cry'd,

Her Ivory Pillows to divide,

That Love might Sail with Wind and Tide;

She rais'd the Mast and sail'd by it,

That Day two Tides together met,

Drove him on Shore soon dropping wet.

* * *



AH! C?lia how can you be Cruel and Fair?

Since removing,

The Charms that are loving,

'Twould make a poor Lover Despair;

'Tis true, I have lov'd you these seven long Years & more,

Too long for a Man that ne'er was in Love before:

And if longer you my Caresses deny,

I then am resolv'd to give over my Flames and die.

Love fires the Heart of him that is Brave,

Charms the Spirit

Of him that is merit,

And makes the poor Lover a Slave;

Dull sordid Souls that never knew how to Love,

Where Nature is plung'd, 'tis a shame to the best above:

And if any longer you my Caresses deny,

I then am resolv'd to give over my Flames and die.

A Song.


THERE was a Knight and he was Young,

A riding along the way, Sir;

And there he met a Lady fair,

Among the Cocks of Hay, Sir:

Quoth he, shall you and I Lady,

Among the Grass lye down a;

And I will have a special Care,

Of rumpling of your Gown a.

If you will go along with me,

Unto my Father's Hall, Sir;

You shall enjoy my Maiden-head,

And my Estate and all, Sir:

So he mounted her on a milk-white Steed,

Himself upon another;

And then they rid upon the Road,

Like Sister and like Brother.

And when she came to her Father's House,

Which was moated round about, Sir;

She stepped streight within the Gate,

And shut this Young Knight out, Sir,

Here is a Purse of Gold, she said,

Take it for your Pains, Sir;

And I will send my Father's Man,

To go home with you again, Sir.

And if you meet a Lady fair,

As you go thro' the next Town, Sir;

You must not fear the Dew of the Grass,

Nor the rumpling of her Gown, Sir:

And if you meet a Lady Gay,

As you go by the Hill, Sir;

If you will not when you may,

You shall not when you will, Sir.

There is a Dew upon the Grass,

Will spoil your Damask Gown a;

Which has cost your Father dear,

Many Shilling and a Crown a:

There is a Wind blows from the West,

Soon will dry the Ground a;

And I will have a special Care,

Of the rumpling of my Gown a.

* * *



SLaves to London I'll deceive you,

For the Country now I leave you:

Who can bear, and not be Mad,

Wine so dear, and yet so bad:

Such a Noise and Air so smoaky,

That to stun, this to choak ye;

Men so selfish, false and rude,

Nymphs so young and yet so lew'd.

Quiet harmless Country Pleasure,

Shall at home engross my Leisure;

Farewel London, I'll repair,

To my Native Country Air:

I leave all thy Pleasures behind me,

But at home my Wife will find me;

Oh the Gods! 'tis ten times worse,

London is a milder Curse.

* * *

The Duke of ORMOND'S March.

Set by Mr. Church.


YE brave Boys and Tars,

That design for the Wars,

Remember the Action at Vigo;

And where ORMOND Commands,

Let us all joyn our Hands,

And where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Let Conquest and Fame,

The Honour proclaim,

Great ORMOND has gotten at Vigo;

Let the Trumpets now sound,

And the Ecchoes around,

Where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Let the Glories be Sung,

Which the ORMONDS have won,

Long before this great Action at Vigo;

They're so Loyal and Just,

And so true to their Trust,

That where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Old Records of Fame,

Of the ORMONDS great Name,

Their Actions, like these were of Vigo;

And since this Prince exceeds,

In his Fore-Father's Deeds,

Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

'Tis the Praise of our Crown,

That such Men of Renown,

Shou'd lead on the Van, as at Vigo;

Where such Lives and Estates

Are expos'd for our sakes,

Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

'Twas the whole Nation's Voice,

And we all did rejoyce,

When we heard he Commanded for Vigo;

To ANNA so True,

All her Foes to pursue,

Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

'Tis the Voice of the Town,

And our Zeal for the Crown,

To serve ORMOND to France, Spain, or Vigo;

So Noble and brave,

Both to Conquer and save,

Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

To the Soldiers so kind,

And so humbly inclin'd,

To wave his Applause gain'd at Vigo;

Yet so kind and so true,

He gave all Men their due,

Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

We justly do own,

All the Honour that's won,

In Flanders, as well as at Vigo;

But our Subject and Theme,

Is of ORMOND's great Name,

And where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Then take off the Bowl,

To that Generous Soul,

That Commanded so bravely at Vigo;

And may ANNA approve,

Of our Duty and Love,

And where he goes, may you go, and I go.

A Cure for Melancholy.


ARE you grown so Melancholy,

That you think on nought but Folly;

Are you sad,

Are you Mad,

Are you worse;

Do you think,

Want of Chink

Is a Curse:

Do you wish for to have,

Longer Life, or a Grave,

Thus would I Cure ye.

First I would have a Bag of Gold,

That should ten Thousand Pieces hold,

And all that,

In thy Hat,

Would I pour;

For to spend,

On thy Friend,

Or thy Whore:

For to cast away at Dice,

Or to shift you of your Lice,

Thus would I Cure ye.

Next I would have a soft Bed made,

Wherein a Virgin should be laid;

That would Play,

Any way

You'll devise;

That would stick

Like a Tick,

To your Thighs,

That would bill like a Dove,

Lye beneath or above,

Thus would I Cure ye.

Next that same Bowl, where Jove Divine,

Drank Nectar in, I'd fill with Wine;

That whereas,

You should pause,

You should quaff;

Like a Greek,

Till your Cheek,

To Ceres and to Venus,

To Bacchus and Silenus,

Thus would I Cure ye.

Last of all there should appear,

Seven Eunuchs sphere-like Singing here,

In the Praise,

Of those Ways,

Of delights;

Venus can,

Use with Man,

In the Night;

When he strives to adorn,

Vulcan's Head with a HORN,

Thus would I Cure ye.

But if not Gold, nor Woman can,

Nor Wine, nor Songs, make merry then;

Let the Batt,

Be thy Mate,

And the Owl;

Let a Pain,

In thy Brain,

Make thee Howl;

Let the Pox be thy Friend,

And the Plague work thy end,

Thus I would Cure you.

* * *

To his fairest Valentine Mrs. A.L.


COME pretty Birds present your Lays,

And learn to chaunt a Goddess Praise;

Ye Wood-Nymphs let your Voices be,

Employ'd to serve her Deity:

And warble forth, ye Virgins Nine,

Some Musick to my Valentine.

Her Bosom is Loves Paradise,

There is no Heav'n but in her Eyes;

She's chaster than the Turtle-Dove,

And fairer than the Queen of Love;

Yea, all Perfections do combine,

To beautifie my Valentine.

She's Nature's choicest Cabinet,

Where Honour, Beauty, Worth and Wit,

Are all united in her Breast,

The Graces claim an Interest:

All Vertues that are most Divine,

Shine clearest in my Valentine.

A Ballad,

Or, Collin's Adventure.


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.


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 C?sar 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.

* * *

A Song: Set by Mr. Clarke.


YOung Coridon and Phillis

Sate in a lovely Grove;

Contriving Crowns of Lillies,

Repeating Tales of Love:

And something else, but what I dare not, &c.

But as they were a Playing,

She oagled so the Swain;

It say'd her plainly saying,

Let's kiss to ease our Pain:

And something else, &c.

A thousand times he kiss'd her,

Laying her on the Green;

But as he farther press'd her,

Her pretty Leg was seen:

And something else, &c.

So many Beauties removing,

His Ardour still increas'd;

And greater Joys pursuing,

He wander'd o'er her Breast:

And something else, &c.

A last Effort she trying,

His Passion to withstand;

Cry'd, but it was faintly crying,

Pray take away your Hand:

And something else, &c.

Young Coridon grown bolder,

The Minute would improve;

This is the Time he told her,

To shew you how I love;

And something else, &c.

The Nymph seem'd almost dying,

Dissolv'd in amorous Heat;

She kiss'd, and told him sighing,

My Dear your Love is great:

And something else, &c.

But Phillis did recover

Much sooner than the Swain;

She blushing ask'd her Lover,

Shall we not Kiss again:

And something else, &c.

Thus Love his Revels keeping,

'Till Nature at a stand;

From talk they fell to Sleeping,

Holding each others Hand;

And something else, &c.

* * *

The Amorous Barber's Passion of Love

for his Dear Bridget.


WIth my Strings of small Wire lo I come,

And a Cittern made of Wood;

And a Song altho' you are Deaf and Dumb,

May be heard and understood.

Dumb, dumb--

Oh! take Pity on me, my Dear,

Me thy Slave, and me thy Vassal,

And be not Cruel, as it were,

Like to some strong and well built old Castle.

Dumb, dumb--

Lest as thou passest along the Street,

Braver every Day and braver;

Every one that does thee meet,

Will say there goes a Woman-shaver.

Dumb, dumb--

And again will think fit,

And to say they will determine;

There goes she that with Tongue killed Clip-Chops,

As a Man with his Thumbs kill Vermine.

Dumb, dumb--

For if thou dost then, farewel Pelf,

Farewel Bridget, for I vow I'll:

Either in my Bason hang my self,

Or drown me in my Towel,

Dumb, dumb--

A Ballad, made by a Gentleman in Ireland, who could not have Access to a Lady whom he went to visit, because the Maid the Night before had over-laid her pretty Bitch. To the Tune of, O Hone, O Hone.


OH! let no Eyes be dry,

Oh Hone, Oh Hone,

But let's lament and cry,

Oh Hone, O Hone,

We're quite undone almost,

For Daphne on this Coast,

Has yielded up the Ghost,

Oh Hone, O Hone.

Daphne my dearest Bitch,

Oh Hone, O Hone,

Who did all Dogs bewitch,

Oh Hone, &c.

Was by a careless Maid,

Pox take her for a Jade,

In the Night over-laid,

Oh Hone, &c.

Oh may she never more

Oh Hone, &c.

Sleep quietly, but snore,

Oh Hone, &c.

May never Irish Lad,

Sue for her Maiden-head,

Until it stinks I Gad,

Oh Hone, &c.

Oh may she never keep

Oh Hone, Oh Hone;

Her Water in her Sleep,

Oh Hone, Oh Hone:

May never Pence nor Pounds,

Come more within the Bounds,

Of her Pocket Ad-sounds,

Oh Hone, Oh Hone.

* * *

Damon forsaken. Set by Mr. Wroth.


WHEN that young Damon bless'd my Heart,

And in soft Words did move;

How did I hug the pleasing Dart,

And thank'd the God of Love:

Cupid, said I, my best lov'd Lamb,

That in my Bosom lives:

To thee, for kindling this dear Flame,

To thee, kind God, I'll give.

But prying Friends o'er-heard my Vow,

And murmur'd in my Ear;

Damon hath neither Flocks nor Plough,

Girl what thou dost beware:

They us'd so long their cursed Art,

And damn'd deluding sham;

That I agreed with them to part,

Nor offer'd up my Lamb.

Cupid ask'd for his Offering,

'Cause I refus'd to pay;

He took my Damon on his Wing,

And carry'd him quite away:

Pitch'd him before Olinda's Charms,

Those Wonders of the Plain;

Commanding her into her Arms,

To take the dearest Swain.

The envy'd Nymph, soon, soon obey'd,

And bore away the Prize;

'Tis well she did, for had she stay'd,

I'd snatch'd him from her Eyes:

My Lamb was with gay Garlands dress'd,

The Pile prepar'd to burn;

Hoping that if the God appeas'd,

My Damon might return.

But oh! in vain he's gone, he's gone,

Phillis he can't be thine;

I by Obedience am undone,

Was ever Fate like mine:

Olinda do, try all thy Charms,

Yet I will have a part;

For whilst you have him in your Arms,

I'll have him in my Heart.

* * *

The Apparition to the Jilted Lover. Set

by Mr. Wroth.


THINK wretched Mortal, think no more,

How to prolong thy Breath:

For thee there are no Joys in store,

But in a welcome Death:

Then seek to lay thee under Ground,

The Grave cures all Despair;

And healeth every bitter Wound,

Giv'n by th' ungrateful Fair.

How cou'dst thou Faith in Woman think,

Women are Syrens all;

And when Men in Loves Ocean sink,

Take Pride to see 'em fall:

Women were never real yet,

But always truth despise:

Constant to nothing but Deceit,

False Oaths and flattering Lies.

Ah! Coridon bid Life adieu,

The Gods will thee prefer;

Their Gates are open'd wide for you,

But bolted against her:

Do thou be true, you vow'd to Love,

Phillis or Death you'll have;

Now since the Nymph doth perjured prove,

Be just unto the Grave.

* * *



HEaven first created Woman to be Kind,

Both to be belov'd, and for to Love;

If you contradict what Heav'n has design'd,

You'll be contemn'd by all the Pow'rs above:

Then no more dispute me, for I am rashly bent,

To subject your Beauty

To kind Nature's Duty,

Let me than salute you by Consent.

Arguments and fair Intreats did I use,

But with her Consent could not prevail;

She the Blessing modestly would still refuse,

Seeming for to slight my amorous Tale:

Sometimes she would cry Sir, prithee Dear be good,

Oh Sir, pray Sir, why Sir?

Pray now, nay now, fye Sir,

I would sooner die Sir, than be rude.

I began to treat her then another way,

Modestly I melted with a Kiss;

She then blushing look'd like the rising Day,

Fitting for me to attempt the Bliss:

I gave her a fall Sir, she began to tear,

Crying she would call Sir,

As loud as she could baul Sir,

But is prov'd as false, Sir, as she's Fair.

Ralph's going to the Wars.


TO the Wars I must alass,

Though I do not like the Game,

For I hold him to be an Ass,

That will lose his Life for Fame:

For these Guns are such pestilent things,

To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;

Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay,

Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how.

When the Bow, Bill, Zword and Dagger,

Were us'd all in vighting;

Ch've heard my Father swear and swagger,

That it was but a Flea-biting:

But these Guns, &c.

Ise would vight with the best of our Parish,

And play at Whisters with Mary;

Cou'd thump the Vootball, yerk the Morrie,

And box at Visticuffs with any:

But these Guns, &c.

Varewel Dick, Tom, Ralph and Hugh,

My Maypoles make all heretofore;

Varewel Doll, Kate, Zis and Zue,

For I shall never zee you more:

For these Guns are such pestilent things,

To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;

Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay,

Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how.

* * *

A Song in Praise of Punch.


COME fill up the Bowl with the Liquor that fine is,

And much more Divine is,

Than now a-days Wine is, with all their Art,

None here can controul:

The Vintner despising, tho' Brandy be rising,

'Tis Punch that must chear the Heart:

The Lovers complaining, 'twill cure in a trice,

And C?lia disdaining, shall cease to be nice,

Come fill up the Bowl, &c.

Thus soon you'll discover, the cheat of each Lover,

When free from all Care you'll quickly find,

As Nature intended 'em willing and kind:

Come fill up the Bowl, &c.

* * *



BONNY Peggy Ramsey that any Man may see,

And bonny was her Face, with a fair freckel'd Eye,

Neat is her Body made, and she hath good Skill,

And square is her Wethergig made like a Mill:

With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,

Bonny Peggy Ramsey she gives weel her Mill.

Peggy to the Mill is gone to grind a Bowl of Mault,

The Mill it wanted Water, and was not that a fault;

Up she pull'd her Petticoats and piss'd into the Dam,

For six Days and seven Nights she made the Mill to gang;

With a hey, &c.

Some call her Peggy, and some call her Jean,

But some calls her Midsummer, but they all are mista'en;

For Peggy is a bonny Lass, and grinds well her Mill,

For she will be Occupied when others they lay still:

With a hey, &c.

Peg, thee and Ise grin a poke, and we to War will leanes,

Ise lay thee flat upon thy Back and then lay to the steanes;

Ise make hopper titter totter, haud the Mouth as still,

When twa sit, and eane stand, merrily grind the Mill:

With a hey, &c.

Up goes the Clap, and in goes the Corn,

Betwixt twa rough steans Peggy not to learn;

With a Dam full of Water that she holdeth still,

To pour upon the Clap for burning of the Mill:

With a hey, &c.

Up she pull'd the Dam sure and let the Water in,

The Wheel went about, and the Mill began to grind:

The spindle it was hardy, and the steanes were they well pickt,

And the Meal fell in the Mill Trough, and ye may all come lick:

With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,

Bonny Peggy Ramsey she gives weel her Mill.


Writ by the Famous Mr. Nat. Lee.

PHilander and Sylvia, a gentle soft Pair,

Whose business was loving, and kissing their Care;

In a sweet smelling Grove went smiling along,

'Till the Youth gave a vent to his Heart with his Tongue:

Ah Sylvia! said he, (and sigh'd when he spoke)

Your cruel resolves will you never revoke?

No never, she said, how never, he cry'd,

'Tis the Damn'd that shall only that Sentence abide.

She turn'd her about to look all around,

Then blush'd, and her pretty Eyes cast on the Ground;

She kiss'd his warm Cheeks, then play'd with his Neck,

And urg'd that his Reason his Passion would check:

Ah Philander! she said, 'tis a dangerous Bliss,

Ah! never ask more and I'll give thee a Kiss;

How never? he cry'd, then shiver'd all o'er,

No never, she said, then tripp'd to a Bower.

She stopp'd at the Wicket, he cry'd let me in,

She answer'd, I wou'd if it were not a sin;

Heav'n sees, and the Gods will chastise the poor Head

Of Philander for this; straight Trembling he said,

Heav'n sees, I confess, but no Tell-tales are there,

She kiss'd him and cry'd, you're an Atheist my Dear;

And shou'd you prove false I should never endure:

How never? he cry'd, and straight down he threw her.

Her delicate Body he clasp'd in his Arms,

He kiss'd her, he press'd her, heap'd charms upon charms;

He cry'd shall I now? no never, she said,

Your Will you shall never enjoy till I'm dead:

Then as if she were dead, she slept and lay still,

Yet even in Death bequeath'd him a smile:

Which embolden'd the Youth his Charms to apply,

Which he bore still about him to cure those that die.



YOur Hay it is mow'd, and your Corn is reap'd,

Your Barns will be full, and your Hovels heap'd;

Come, my Boys come,

Come, my Boys come,

And merrily roar our Harvest home:

Harvest home,

Harvest home,

And merrily roar our Harvest home.

Come, my Boys come, &c.

We ha' cheated the Parson, we'll cheat him agen,

For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten:

One in Ten,

One in Ten,

For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten,

One in Ten, &c.

For prating too long, like a Book learnt Sot,

'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot:

Burnt to Pot,

Burnt to Pot,

'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot.

Burnt to Pot, &c.

We'll toss off our Ale till we cannot stand,

And hey for the Honour of old England;

Old England,

Old England,

And hey for the Honour of old England,

Old England, &c.

* * *



I Prithee send me back my Heart,

Since I cannot have thine:

For if from yours you will not part,

Why then should you have mine.

Yet now I think on't, let it be,

To send it me is vain;

Thou hast a Thief in either Eye,

Will steal it back again.

Why should two Hearts in one Breast be,

And yet not be together;

Or Love, where is thy Sympathy,

If thou our Hearts do sever?

But Love is such a Mystery,

I cannot find it out;

For when I think I am best resolv'd,

Then I am most in Doubt.

Then farewel Care, then farewel Woe,

I will no longer pine;

But I'll believe I have her Heart,

As well as she hath mine.

Bacchus turn'd Doctor. The Words by

Ben. Johnson.


LET Soldiers fight for Pay and Praise,

And Money be Misers wish;

Poor Scholars study all their Days,

And Gluttons glory in their Dish:

'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,

Therefore give us chearing Bowls.

Let Minions marshal in their Hair,

And in a Lover's lock delight;

And artificial Colours wear,

We have the Native Red and White.

'Tis Wine, &c.

Your Pheasant, Pout, and Culver Salmon,

And how to please your Palates think:

Give us a salt Westphalia-Gammon,

Not Meat to eat, but Meat to drink.

'Tis Wine, &c.

It makes the backward Spirits brave,

That lively, that before was dull;

Those grow good Fellows that are grave,

And kindness flows from Cups brim full,

'Tis Wine, &c.

Some have the Ptysick, some the Rhume,

Some have the Palsie, some the Gout;

Some swell with Fat, and some consume,

But they are sound that drink all out.

'Tis Wine, &c.

Some Men want Youth, and some want Health,

Some want a Wife, and some a Punk;

Some Men want Wit, and some want Wealth,

But he wants nothing that is drunk.

'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,

Therefore give us chearing Bowls.

* * *

Jenny making Hay.


POOR Jenny and I we toiled,

In a long Summer's Day;

Till we were almost foiled,

With making of the Hay;

Her Kerchief was of Holland clear,

Bound low upon her Brow;

Ise whisper'd something in her Ear,

But what's that to you?

Her Stockings were of Kersey green,

Well stitcht with yellow Silk;

Oh! sike a Leg was never seen,

Her Skin as white as Milk:

Her Hair as black as any Crow,

And sweet her Mouth was too;

Oh Jenny daintily can mow,

But, &c.

Her Petticoats were not so low,

As Ladies they do wear them;

She needed not a Page I trow,

For I was by to bear them:

Ise took them up all in my Hand,

And I think her Linnen too;

Which made me for to make a stand;

But, &c.

King Solomon had Wives enough,

And Concubines a Number;

Yet Ise possess more happiness,

And he had more of Cumber;

My Joys surmount a wedded Life,

With fear she lets me mow her;

A Wench is better than a Wife,

But, &c.

The Lilly and the Rose combine,

To make my Jenny fair;

There's no Contentment sike as mine;

I'm almost void of Care:

But yet I fear my Jenny's Face,

Will cause more Men to woe;

Which if she should, as I do fear,

Still, what is that to you?

* * *

The Knotting Song. The Words by Sir

Charles Sydney.


HEars not my Phillis how the Birds,

Their feather'd Mates salute:

They tell their Passion in their Words,

Must I alone, must I alone be mute:

Phillis without a frown or smile,

Sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while.

The God of Love in thy bright Eyes,

Does like a Tyrant Reign;

But in thy Heart a Child he lies,

Without a Dart or Flame.

Phillis, &c.

So many Months in silence past,

And yet in raging Love;

Might well deserve one word at last,

My Passion should approve.

Phillis, &c.

Must then your faithful Swain expire,

And not one look obtain;

Which to sooth his fond desire,

Might pleasingly explain.

Phillis, &c.

The French King in a foaming Passion for the loss of his Potent Army in the Netherlands, which were Routed by his Grace the Duke of Marlborough.


OLD Lewis le Grand,

He raves like a Fury,

And calls for Mercury;

Quoth he, if I can,

I'll finish my Days;

For why should I live?

Since the Fates will not give

One affable smile:

Great Marlborough Conquers,

Great Marlborough Conquers,

I'm ruin'd the while.

The Flower of France,

And Troops of my Palace

Which march'd from Versales

Who vow'd to Advance,

With Conquering Sword,

Are cut, hack'd and hew'd,

I well may conclude,

They're most of them Slain:

Oh! what will become of,

Oh! what will become of,

My Grand-Son in Spain.

My fortify'd Throne,

Propt up by Oppression,

Must yield at Discretion,

For needs must I own,

My Glory decays:

Bold Marlborough comes

With ratling Drums,

And thundering Shot,

He drives all before him,

He drives all before him,

Oh! Where am I got?

He pushes for Crowns,

And slays my Commanders,

And Forces in Flanders;

Great Capital Towns,

For CHARLES has declar'd:

These things like a Dart,

Has pierced my Heart,

And threatens my Death;

Here do I lye sighing,

Here do I lye sighing,

And Panting for Breath.

This passionate Grief,

Draws on my Diseases,

Which fatally ceases

My Spirits in chief,

A fit of the Gout,

The Gravel and Stone,

I have 'tis well known,

At this horrid News,

Of Marlborough's Triumph,

Of Marlborough's Triumph,

All Battles I lose.

Wherever he comes,

He is bold and Victorious,

Successful and glorious,

My two Royal Thumbs

With anguish I bite:

To hear his Success;

Yet nevertheless,

My passion's in vain:

I pity my Darling,

I pity my Darling,

Young Philip in Spain.

I am out of my Wits,

If e'er I had any;

My Foes they are many,

Which plagues me by fits,

In Flanders and Spain:

I'm sick at my Heart,

To think we must part,

With what we enjoy'd,

Towns, Castles, are taken,

Towns, Castles, are taken,

My Troops are destroy'd.

I am I declare,

In a weak Condition,

Go call my Physician,

And let him prepare

Some comfort with speed,

Without all delay,

Assist me I pray,

And hear my Complaint,

A Dram of the Bottle,

A Dram of the Bottle,

Or else I shall faint.

Should I slip my Breath,

At this dreadful Season,

I think it but Reason,

I should lay my Death,

To the daring Foes,

Whose Fire and Smoak,

Has certainly broke,

The Heart in my Breast:

Oh! bring me a Cordial,

Oh! bring me a Cordial,

And lay me to Rest.

* * *

A Song. Set by Captain Pack.


WOuld you be a Man in Fashion?

Would you lead a Life Divine?

Take a little Dram of Passion, (a little dram of Passion)

In a lusty Dose of Wine

If the Nymph has no Compassion,

Vain it is to sigh and groan:

Love was but put in for Fashion,

Wine will do the Work alone.

* * *


Set by Mr. Tho. Farmer.


THough the Pride of my Passion fair Sylvia betrays,

And frowns at the Love I impart;

Though kindly her Eyes twist amorous Rays,

To tye a more fortunate Heart:

Yet her Charms are so great, I'll be bold in my Pain,

His Heart is too tender,

Too tender, that's struck with Disdain.

Still my Heart is so just to my Passionate Eyes,

It dissolves with Delight while I gaze:

And he that loves on, though Sylvia denies,

His Love but his Duty obeys:

I no more can refrain her neglects to pursue,

Than the force, the force

Of her Beauty can cease to subdue.



WHEN first I fair Celinda knew,

Her Kindness then was great:

Her Eyes I cou'd with Pleasure view,

And friendly Rays did meet:

In all Delights we past the time,

That could Diversion move;

She oft would kindly hear me Rhime

Upon some others Love:

She oft would kindly hear me Rhime,

Upon some others Love.

But ah! at last I grew too bold,

Prest by my growing Flame;

For when my Passion I had told,

She hated ev'n my Name:

Thus I that cou'd her Friendship boast,

And did her Love pursue;

And taught Contentment at the cost,

Of Love and Friendship too.

* * *


Set by Mr. Fishburne.


LONG had Damon been admir'd,

By the Beauties of the Plain;

Ev'ry Breast warm Love inspir'd,

For the proper handsome Swain:

The choicest Nymph Sicilia bred,

Was won by his resistless Charms:

Soft Looks, and Verse as smooth, had led

And left the Captive in his Arms.

But our Damon's Soul aspires,

To a Goddess of his Race;

Though he sues with chaster Fires,

This his Glories does deface:

The fatal News no sooner blown

In Whispers up the Chesnut Row;

The God Sylvanus with a Frown,

Blasts all the Lawrels on his Brow.

Swains be wise, and check desire

In it's soaring, when you'll woe:

Damon may in Love require

Thestyles and Laura too:

When Shepherds too ambitious are,

And Court Astrea on a Throne;

Like to the shooting of a Star,

They fall, and thus their shining's gone.

A Song.

Set by Mr. Fishburn.


PRetty Floramel, no Tongue can ever tell,

The Charms that in thee dwell;

Those Soul-melting Pleasures,

Shou'd the mighty Jove once view, he'd be in Love,

And plunder all above,

To rain down his Treasure:

Ah! said the Nymph in the Shepherd's Arms,

Had you half so much Love as you say I have Charms;

There's not a Soul, created for Man and Love,

More true than Floramel wou'd prove,

I'd o'er the World with thee rove.

Love that's truly free, had never Jealousie,

But artful Love may be

Both doubtful and wooing;

Ah! dear Shepherdess, ne'er doubt, for you may guess,

My Heart will prove no less,

Than ever endless loving:

Then cries the Nymph, like the Sun thou shalt be,

And I, like kind Earth, will produce all to thee;

Of ev'ry Flower in Love's Garden I'll Off'rings pay

To my Saint. Nay then pray

Take not those dear Eyes away.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. Robert King.


BY shady Woods and purling Streams,

I spend my Life in pleasing Dreams;

And would not for the World be thought

To change my false delightful Thought:

For who, alas! can happy be,

That does the Truth of all things see?

For who, alas! can happy be,

That does the Truth of all things see.

* * *

A Song. Sett by Mr. Henry Purcell.


IN Chloris all soft Charms agree,

Enchanting Humour pow'rful Wit;

Beauty from Affectation free,

And for Eternal Empire fit:

Where-e'er she goes, Love waits her Eyes,

The Women Envy, Men adore;

Tho' did she less the Triumph Prize,

She wou'd deserve the Conquest more.

But Vanity so much prevails,

She begs what else none can deny her;

And with inviting treach'rous Smiles

Gives hopes which ev'n prevent desire:

Reaches at every trifling Heart,

Grows warm with ev'ry glimm'ring Flame:

And common Prey so deads her Dart,

It scarce can wound a noble Game.

I could lye Ages at her Feet,

Adore her careless of my Pain;

With tender Vows her Rigour meet,

Despair, love on, and not complain:

My Passion from all change secur'd,

Favours may rise, no Frown controuls;

I any Torment can endure,

But hoping with a crowd of Fools.

A Song. Set by Mr. Tho. Farmer.


WHEN busie Fame o'er all the Plain,

Velinda's Praises rung;

And on their Oaten Pipes each Swain

Her matchless Beauty sung:

The Envious Nymphs were forc'd to yield

She had the sweetest Face;

No emulous disputes were held,

But for the second place.

Young Coridon, whose stubborn Heart

No Beauty e'er could move;

But smil'd at Cupid's Bow and Dart,

And brav'd the God of Love:

Would view this Nymph, and pleas'd at first,

Such silent Charms to see:

With Wonder gaz'd, then sigh'd, and curs'd

His Curiosity.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. Fishburne.


WHy am I the only Creature,

Must a ruin'd Love pursue;

Other Passions yield to Nature,

Mine there's nothing can subdue:

Not the Glory of Possessing,

Monarch wishes gave me ease,

More and more the mighty Blessings

Did my raging Pains encrease.

Nor could Jealousie relieve me,

Tho' it ever waited near;

Cloath'd in gawdy Pow'r to grieve me,

Still the Monster would appear:

That, nor Time, nor Absence neither,

Nor Despair removes my Pain;

I endure them all together,

Yet my Torments still remain.

Had alone her matchless beauty,

Set my amorous Heart on Fire,

Age at last would do its Duty,

Fuel ceasing, Flames expire.

But her Mind immortal grows,

Makes my Love immortal too;

Nature ne'er created Faces,

Can the Charms of Souls undoe.

And to make my Loss the greater,

She laments it as her own;

Could she scorn me, I might hate her,

But alas! she shews me none:

Then since Fortune is my Ruin,

In Retirement I'll Complain;

And in rage for my undoing,

Ne'er come in its Power again.

* * *



LAurinda, who did love Disdain,

For whom had languish'd many a Swain:

Leading her bleating Flocks to drink,

She 'spy'd upon a River's brink

A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare,

How much he lov'd, but lov'd not her.

At first she laugh'd, but gaz'd a while,

Which soon it lessen'd to a smile;

Thence to Surprize and Wonder came,

Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame:

Then cry'd she out, Ah! now I prove

Thou art a God most mighty Jove.

She would have spoke, but shame deny'd,

And bid her first consult her Pride;

But soon she found that aid was gone,

For Jove, alass! had left her none:

Ah! now she burns! but 'tis too late,

For in his Eyes she reads her Fate.



FAIR C?lia too fondly contemns those Delights,

Wherewith gentle Nature hath soften'd the Nights;

If she be so kind to present us with Pow'r,

The Fault is our own to neglect the good Hour:

Who gave thee this Beauty, ordain'd thou should'st be,

As kind to thy Slaves, as the Gods were to thee.

Then C?lia no longer reserve the vain Pride,

Of wronging thy self, to see others deny'd;

If Love be a Pleasure, alass! you will find,

We both are not happy, when both are most kind:

But Women, like Priests, do in others reprove,

And call that thing Lust, which in them is but Love.

What they thro' their Madness and Folly create,

We poor silly Slaves still impute to our Fate;

But in such Distempers where Love is the Grief,

'Tis C?lia, not Heaven, must give us Relief:

Then away with those Titles of Honour and Cause,

Which first made us sin, by giving us Laws.

* * *


Set by Mr. William Turner.


I Lik'd, but never Lov'd before

I saw that charming Face;

Now every Feature I adore,

And doat on ev'ry Grace:

She ne'er shall know that kind desire,

Which her cold Looks denies,

Unless my Heart that's all on Fire,

Should sparkle through my Eyes:

Then if no gentle Glance return,

A silent Leave to speak;

My Heart which would for ever burn,

Alass! must sigh and break.

A SONG in Valentinian.


WHERE would coy Amyntas run,

From a despairing Lover's Story?

When her Eyes have Conquest won,

Why should her Ear refuse the Glory:

Shall a Slave, whose Racks constrain,

Be forbidden to complain;

Let her scorn me, let her Fly me,

Let her Looks, her Love deny me:

Ne'er shall my Heart yield to despair,

Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care,

Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care:

Much to love, and much to pray,

Is to Heav'n the only way.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. Pelham Humphreys.


A Wife I do hate,

For either she's False, or she's Jealous;

But give me a Mate,

Who nothing will ask us or tell us:

She stands at no Terms,

Nor Chaffers by way of Indenture:

Or Loves for the Farms,

But takes the kind Man at a Venture.

If all prove not right,

Without an Act, Process or Warning,

From Wife for a Night,

You may be divorc'd the next Morning,

Where Parents are Slaves,

Their Brats can't be any other;

Great Wits and great Braves,

Have always a Punk to their Mother.



TELL me ye Sicilian Swains,

Why this Mourning's o'er your Plains;

Where's your usual Melody?

Why are all your Shepherds mad,

And your Shepherdesses sad?

What can the mighty meaning be?

Chorus. Sylvia the Glory of our Plains;

Sylvia the Love of all our Swains;

That blest us with her Smiles:

Where ev'ry Shepherd had a Heart,

And ev'ry Shepherdess a Part;

Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle,

Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle.

* * *



WHEN gay Philander left the Plain,

The Love, the Life of ev'ry Swain;

His Pipe the mournful Strephon took,

By some sad Bank and murm'ring Brook:

Whilst list'ning Flocks forsook their Food,

And Melancholy by him stood;

On the cold Ground himself he laid,

And thus the Mournful Shepherd play'd.

Farewel to all that's bright and gay,

No more glad Night and chearing Day;

No more the Sun will gild our Plain,

'Till the lost Youth return again:

Then every pensive Heart that now,

With Mournful Willow shades his Brow;

Shall crown'd with chearful Garlands sing,

And all shall seem Eternal Spring.

Say, mighty Pan, if you did know,

Say all ye rural Gods below;

'Mongst all Youths that grac'd your Plain,

So gay so beautiful a Swain:

In whose sweet Air and charming Voice,

Our list'ning Swains did all Rejoyce;

Him only, O ye Gods! restore

Your Nymphs, and Shepherds ask no more.


Set by Mr. Tho. Kingsley.


HOW Happy's the Mortal whose Heart is his own,

And for his own Quiet's beholden to none,

(Eccho. Beholden to none, to none;)

That to Love's Enchantments ne'er lendeth an Ear,

Which a Frown or a Smile can equally bear,

(Eccho. Can equally bear, can bear,)

Nor on ev'ry frail Beauty still fixes an Eye,

But from those sly Felons doth prudently fly,

(Eccho. Doth prudently, prudently fly, doth fly;)

For the Heart that still wanders is pounded at last,

And 'tis hard to relieve it when once it is fast,

(Eccho. When once it is fast, is fast.)

By sporting with Dangers still longer and longer,

The Fetters and Chains of the Captive grows stronger;

He drills on his Evil, then curses his Fate,

And bewails those Misfortunes himself did create:

Like an empty Camelion he lives on the Air,

And all the Day lingers 'twixt Hope and Despair;

Like a Fly in the Candle he sports and he Games,

'Till a Victim in Folly, he dies in the Flames.

If Love, so much talk'd of, a Heresie be,

Of all it enslaves few true Converts we see;

If hectoring and huffing would once do the Feat,

There's few that would fail of a Vict'ry Compleat;

But with Gain to come off, and the Tyrant subdue,

Is an Art that is hitherto practis'd by few;

How easie is Freedom once had to maintain,

But Liberty lost is as hard to regain.

This driv'ling and sniv'ling, and chiming in Parts,

This wining and pining, and breaking of Hearts;

All pensive and silent in Corners to sit,

Are pretty fine Pastimes for those that want Wit:

When this Passion and Fashion doth so far abuse 'em,

It were good the State should for Pendulums use 'em;

For if Reason it seize on, and make it give o'er,

No Labour can save, or reliev't any more.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. Henry Purcell.


A Thousand several ways I try'd,

To hide my Passion from your view;

Conscious that I should be deny'd,

Because I cannot Merit you:

Absence, the last and worst of all,

Did so encrease my wretched Pain,

That I return'd, rather to fall

By the swift Fate, by the swift Fate of your Disdain.

* * *



TO the Grove, gentle Love, let us be going,

Where the kind Spring and Wind all Day are Woing;

He with soft sighing Blasts strives to o'er-take her,

She would not tho' she flies, have him forsake her,

But in circling Rings returning,

And in purling Whispers Mourning;

She swells and pants, as if she'd say,

Fain I would, but dare not stay.

* * *


Set by Mr. Fishburn.


TELL me no more of Flames in Love,

That common dull pretence,

Fools in Romances use to move

Soft Hearts of little Sense:

No, Strephon, I'm not such a Slave,

Love's banish'd Power to own;

Since Interest and Convenience have

So long usurp'd his Throne.

No burning Hope or cold Despair,

Dull Groves or purling Streams,

Sighing and talking to the Air

In Love's fantastick Dreams,

Can move my Pity or my Hate,

But Satyrist I'll prove,

And all ridiculous create

That shall pretend to Love.

Love was a Monarch once, 'tis true,

And God-like rul'd alone,

And tho' his Subjects were but few,

Their Hearts were all his own;

But since the Slaves revolted are,

And turn'd into a State,

Their Int'rest is their only Care,

And Love grows out of Date.


Set by Mr. Fishburn.


WEalth breeds Care, Love, Hope and Fear;

What does Love our Business hear?

While Bacchus merry does appear,

Fight on and fear no sinking,

Charge it briskly to the Brim,

'Till the flying Top-sails swim,

We owe the great Discovery to him

Of this new World of Drinking.

Grave Cabals that States refine,

Mingle their Debates with Wine;

Ceres and the God o'th' Wine;

Makes every great Commander.

Let sober Sots Small-beer subdue,

The Wise and valiant Wine does woe;

The Stagyrite had the honour to

Be drunk with Alexander.

Stand to your Arms, and now Advance

A Health to the English King of France;

On to the next a bon Speranze,

By Bacchus and Apollo.

Thus in State I lead the Van,

Fall in your Place by your right-hand Man,

Beat Drum! now March! Dub a dub, ran dan,

He's a Whig that will not follow.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. Fishburn.


THO' Fortune and Love may be Deities still,

To those they Oblige by their Pow'r;

For my Part, they ever have us'd me so ill,

They cannot expect I'll adore:

Hereafter a Temple to Friendship I'll raise,

And dedicate there all the rest of my Days,

To the Goddess accepted my Vows,

To the Goddess accepted my Vows.

Thou perfectest Image of all things Divine,

Bright Center of endless Desires,

May the Glory be yours, and the Services mine,

When I light at your Altars the Fires.

I offer a Heart has Devotion so pure,

It would for your Service all Torments endure,

Might you but have all things you wish,

Might you, &c.

But yet the Goddess of Fools to despise,

I find I'm too much in her Power;

She makes me go where 'tis in vain to be wise,

In absence of her I adore:

If Love then undoes me before I get back,

I still with resignment receive the Attack,

Or languish away in Despair,

Or languish, &c.


Set by Mr. Henry Purcell.


HE himself courts his own Ruin,

That with too great Passion sues 'em:

When Men Whine too much in Wooing,

Women with like Coquets use 'em:

Some by this way of addressing

Have the Sex so far transported,

That they'll fool away the Blessing

For the Pride of being Courted.

Jilt and smile when we adore 'em,

While some Blockhead buys the Favour;

Presents have more Power o'er 'em

Than all our soft Love and Labour,

Thus, like Zealots, with screw'd Faces,

We our fooling make the greater,

While we cant long winded Graces,

Others they fall to the Creature.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. Damasene.


CEase lovely Strephon, cease to charm;

Useless, alas! is all this Art;

It's needless you should strongly arm,

To take a too, too willing Heart:

I hid my weakness all I could,

And chid my pratling tell-tale Eyes,

For fear the easie Conquest should

Take from the value of the Prize.

But oh! th' unruly Passion grew

So fast, it could not be conceal'd,

And soon, alas! I found to you

I must without Conditions yield,

Tho' you have thus surpriz'd my Heart,

Yet use it kindly, for you know,

It's not a gallant Victor's part

To insult o'er a vanquish'd Foe.


Set by Mr. Damasene.


YOU happy Youths, whose Hearts are free

From Love's Imperial Chain,

Henceforth be warn'd and taught by me,

And taught by me to avoid inchanting Pain,

Fatal the Wolves to trembling Flocks,

Sharp Winds to Blossoms prove:

To careless Seamen, hidden Rocks;

To human quiet Love.

Fly the Fair-Sex, if Bliss you prize,

The Snake's beneath the Flow'r:

Whoever gaz'd on Beauties Eyes,

That tasted Quiet more?

The Kind with restless Jealousie,

The Cruel fill with Care;

With baser Falshood those betray,

These kill us with Despair.

* * *

A Song. Set by Dr. Staggins.


WHEN first Amyntas charm'd my Heart,

The heedless Sheep began to stray;

The Wolves soon stole the greatest part,

And all will now be made a Prey:

Ah! let not Love your Thoughts possess,

'Tis fatal to a Shepherdess;

The dangerous Passion you must shun,

Or else like me, be quite undone.

* * *


Set by Mr. Richard Croone.


HOW happy and free is the resolute Swain,

That denies to submit to the Yoak of the Fair;

Free from Excesses of Pleasure and Pain,

Neither dazl'd with Hope, nor deprest with Despair.

He's safe from Disturbance, and calmly enjoys

All the Pleasures of Love, without Clamour and Noise.

Poor Shepherds in vain their Affections reveal,

To a Nymph that is peevish, proud sullen and coy;

Vainly do Virgins their Passions conceal,

For they boil in their Grief, 'till themselves they destroy,

And thus the poor Darling lies under a Curse:

To be check'd in the Womb, or o'erlaid by the Nurse.

* * *


Sung by Mrs. Cross in the Mock-Astrologer,

Set by Mr. Ramondon.


WHY so pale and wan fond Lover?

Prithee, prithee, Prithee why so pale:

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking Ill, looking ill prevail?

Why so dull and mute young Sinner?

Prithee, prithee why so mute;

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing, nothing do't?

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,

This cannot, cannot, cannot, cannot take her;

If of her self she will not love,

Nothing can, nothing can make her,

The Devil, the Devil, the Devil, the Devil take her.

* * *

A Song occasioned by a Lady's wearing a Patch upon a becoming place on her Face. Set by Mr. John Weldon.


THAT little Patch upon your Face

Wou'd seem a Foil on one less Fair,

Wou'd seem a Foil, wou'd seem a Foil,

Wou'd seem a Foil on one less Fair:

On you it hides a charming Grace,

And you in Pity, you in Pity,

You in Pity plac'd it there;

On you it hides a Charming Grace,

And you in Pity, you in Pity,

In Pity plac'd it there.

And you in Pity, Pity,

And you in Pity plac'd it there.

* * *


Set and Sung by Mr. Leveridge at the



IRIS beware when Strephon pursues you,

'Tis but to boast a Conquest won:

All his Designs are aim'd to undo you,

Break off the Love he has begun:

When he's Addressing, and prays for the Blessing,

Which none but his Iris can give alone;

O then beware, 'tis all to undo you,

'Tis but to boast a Conquest won:

She that's believing, while he is deceiving,

Like many already, will be undone;

Iris beware when Strephon pursues you,

'Tis but to boast a Conquest won.


Set by Mr. Ramondon, Sung at the



HOW charming Phillis is, how Fair,

How charming Phillis is, how Fair,

O that she were as willing,

To ease my wounded Heart of Care,

And make her Eyes less killing;

To ease my wounded Heart of Care,

And make her Eyes less killing;

To ease my wounded Heart of Care,

And make her Eyes less killing;

To ease my wounded Heart of Care,

And make her Eyes less killing.

I Sigh, I Sigh, I Languish now,

And Love will not let me rest;

I drive about the Park and Bow,

Where-e'er I meet my Dearest.


Set by Mr. Anthony Young.


CEASE whining Damon to Complain,

Of thy Unhappy Fate;

That Sylvia should thy Love disdain,

Which lasting was and great.

For Love so constant flames so bright,

More unsuccessful prove:

Than cold neglect and sudden slight,

To gain the Nymph you love.

Then only you'll obtain the Prize,

When you her Coyness use;

If you pursue the Fair, she flies,

But if you fly, pursues.

Had Ph?bus not pursu'd so fast

The seeming cruel she;

The God a Virgin had embrac'd,

And not a lifeless Tree.

* * *

A Song in the Opera call'd the Brittish

Enchanters. Set by Mr. J. Eccles.


PLague us not with idle Stories,

Whining Loves, whining Loves, whining Loves,

And Senceless Glories.

What are Lovers? what are Kings?

What, at best, but slavish Things?

What are Lovers? what are Kings?

What, at best, but slavish Things?

What, at best, but slavish Things?

Free I liv'd as Nature made me,

Love nor Beauty durst invade me,

No rebellious Slaves betray'd me,

Free I liv'd as Nature made me,

Each by turns as Sence inspired me,

Bacchus, Ceres, Venus fir'd me,

I alone have learnt true Pleasure,

Freedom, Freedom, Freedom is the only, only Treasure.

* * *

JUNO in the Prize.

Set by Mr. John Weldon.


LET Ambition fire thy Mind,

Thou wert born o'er Men to Reign;

Not to follow Flocks design'd,

Scorn thy Crook, and leave the Plain:

Not to follow Flocks design'd,

Scorn thy Crook, and leave the Plain.

Crowns I'll throw beneath thy Feet,

Thou on Necks of Kings shalt tread,

Joys in Circles, Joys shall meet,

Which way e're thy fancy leads.

* * *

The Beau's Character in the Comedy call'd Hampstead-Heath. Set and Sung by Mr. Ramondon.


A Whig that's full,

An empty Scull,

A Box of Burgamot;

A Hat ne'er made

To fit his Head

No more than that to Plot.

A Hand that's White,

A Ring that's right,

A Sword, Knot, Patch and Feather;

A Gracious Smile,

And Grounds and Oyl,

Do very well together.

A smatch of French,

And none of Sence,

All Conquering Airs and Graces;

A Tune that Thrills,

A Lear that Kills,

Stoln Flights and borrow'd Phrases.

A Chariot Gilt,

To wait on Jilt,

An awkward Pace and Carriage;

A Foreign Tower,

Domestick Whore,

And Mercenary Marriage.

A Limber Ham,

G-- D-- ye M'am,

A Smock-Face, tho' a Tann'd one;

A Peaceful Sword,

Not one wise Word,

But State and Prate at Random.

Duns, Bastards, Claps,

And Am'rous Scraps,

Of C?lia and Amadis;

Toss up a Beau,

That Grand Ragou,

That Hodge-Podge for the Ladies.

* * *

A Song in the Innocent Mistress. Set by

Mr. John Eccles, Sung by Mrs. Hodgson.


WHen I languish'd and wish'd you wou'd something bestow,

You bad me to give it a Name;

But by Heav'n I know it as little as you,

Tho' my Ignorance passes for Shame:

You take for Devotion each passionate Glance,

And think the dull Fool is sincere;

But never believe that I spake in Romance,

On purpose to tickle, on purpose, on purpose,

On purpose to tickle your Ear:

To please me than more, think still I am true,

And hug each Apocryphal Text;

Tho' I practice a Thousand false Doctrines on you,

I shall still have enough, I shall still have enough,

Shall still have enough for the next.

* * *

VENUS to PARIS in the Prize Musick.

Set by Mr. John Weldon.


HIther turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle Swain,

Hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle Swain,

Let not Venus, let not Venus, let not Venus sue in vain;

Venus rules, Venus rules, Venus rules the Gods above,

Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them, and she rules Love?

Venus rules the Gods above,

Love rules them, Love rules them, Love rules them,

Love rules them, Love rules them, and she rules Love.

Love rules them, and she rules Love.

* * *


The Words by Mr. Ward, Set by Mr.



BElinda! why do you distrust,

So faithful and so kind a Heart:

Which cannot prove to you unjust,

But must it self endure the smart:

No, no, no, no the wandring Stars,

Shall sooner cease their Motion;

And Nature reconcile the Jars,

'Twixt Boreas and the Ocean:

The fixed Poles shall seem to move,

And ramble from their Places;

E'er I'll from fair Belinda rove,

Or slight her charming Graces.

* * *


Set by Mr. William Turner.


LONG was the Day e're Alexis my Lover,

To finish my Hopes would his Passion reveal;

He could not speak, nor I could not discover,

What my poor aking Heart was so loath to conceal:

Till the Strength of his Passion his Fear had remov'd,

Then we mutually talk'd, and we mutually lov'd.

Groves for Umbrella's did kindly o'er-shade us,

From Ph?bus hot rages, who like envy in strove;

Had not kind Fate this Provision made us,

All the Nymphs of the Air would have envy'd our Love:

But we stand below Envy that ill-natur'd Fate,

And above cruel Scorn is happy Estate.

* * *


Set to Musick by Mr. John Eccles.


AS Cupid roguishly one Day,

Had all alone stole out to play;

The Muses caught the little

, little, little Knave,

And captive Love to Beauty gave:

The Muses caught the little, little, little Knave,

And captive Love to Beauty gave:

The laughing Dame soon miss'd her Son,

And here and there, and here and there,

And here and there distracted run;

Distracted run, and here and there,

And here and there, and here and there distracted run:

And still his Liberty to gain, his Liberty to gain,

Offers his Ransom,

But in vain, in vain, in vain;

The willing, willing Prisoner still hugs his Chain,

And Vows he'll ne'er be free,

And Vows he'll ne'er be free,

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,

No, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again,

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,

No, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again.

Old Soldiers.


OF old Soldiers, the Song you would hear,

And we old Fidlers have forgot who they were,

But all we remember shall come to your Ear,

That we are old Soldiers of the Queens,

And the Queens old Soldiers.

With the Old Drake, that was the next Man

To Old Franciscus, who first it began,

To sail through the Streights of Magellan,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

That put the proud Spanish Armado to wrack,

And Travell'd all o'er the old World, and came back,

In his old Ship, laden with Gold and old Sack,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Cavendish, that seconded him,

And taught his old Sails the same Passage to swim,

And did them therefore with Cloth of Gold Trim,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

Like an Old Rawleigh, that twice and again,

Sailed over most part of the Seas, and then

Travell'd all o'er the World with his Pen,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old John Norris, the General,

That at old Gaunt, made his Fame Immortal,

In spight of his Foes, with no loss at all,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

Like Old Brest Fort, an invincible thing,

When the old Queen sent him to help the French King,

Took from the proud Fox, to the World's wond'ring,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

Where an old stout Fryer, as goes the Story,

Came to push of Pike with him in Vain-glory,

But he was almost sent to his own Purgatory,

By this old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Ned Norris, that kept Ostend,

A terror to Foe, and a Refuge to Friend,

And left it Impregnable to his last End,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

That in the old unfortunate Voyage of all,

March'd o'er the old Bridge, and knock'd at the Wall,

Of Lisbon, the Mistress of Portugal,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Tim Norris, by the old Queen sent,

Of Munster in Ireland, Lord President,

Where his Days and his Blood in her service he spent,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Harry Norris, in Battle wounded,

In his Knee, whose Leg was cut off, and he said,

You have spoil'd my Dancing, and dy'd in his Bed,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Will Norris, the oldest of all,

Who went voluntary, without any Call,

To th' old Irish Wars, to's Fame Immortal,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

With an Old Dick Wenman, the first in his Prime,

That over the Walls of old Cales did Clime,

And there was Knighted, and liv'd all his Time,

Like an old Soldier, &c.

With Old Nando Wenman, when Brest was o'er thrown,

Into the Air, into the Seas, with Gunpowder blown,

Yet bravely recovering, long after was known,

For an Old Soldier, &c.

When an Old Tom Wenman, whose bravest delight,

Was in a good Cause for his Country to Fight,

And dy'd in Ireland, a good old Knight,

And an old Soldier, &c.

With a Young Ned Wenman, so valiant and bold,

In the Wars of Bohemia, as with the Old,

Deserves for his Valour to be Enroll'd,

An old Soldier, &c.

And thus of Old Soldiers, ye hear the Fame,

But ne'er so many of one House and Name,

And all of old John Lord Viscount of Thame,

An old Soldier of the Queens,

And the Queens old Soldier.

* * *

On the Tombs in Westminster Abby.

You must suppose it to be Easter Holy-Days: At what time Sisly and Dol, Kate and Peggy, Moll and Nan, are marching to Westminster, with a Leash of Prentices before 'em; who go rowing themselves along with their right Arms to make more hast, and now and then with a greasie Muckender wipe away the dripping that bastes their Foreheads. At the Door they meet a crowd of Wapping Sea-men, Southwark Broom-men, the Inhabitants of the Bank-Side, with a Butcher or two prickt in among them. There a while they stand gaping for the Master of the Show, staring upon the Suburbs of their dearest delight, just as they stand gaping upon the painted Cloth before they go into the Puppet Play. By and by they hear the Bunch of Keys, which rejoyces their Hearts like the sound of the Pancake-Bell. For now the Man of Comfort peeps over the Spikes, and beholding such a learned Auditory, opens the Gate of Paradise, and by that time they are half got into the first Chapel, (for time is very precious) he lifts up his Voice among the Tombs, and begins his Lurrey in manner and form following.

To the foregoing Tune; In Imitation of the Old Soldiers.

HERE lies William de Valence,

A right good Earl of Pembroke,

And this is his Monument which you see,

I'll swear upon a Book.

He was high Marshal of England,

When Henry the Third did Reign;

But this you take upon my Word,

That he'll ne'er be so again.

Here the Lord Edward Talbot lies,

The Town of Shrewsbury's Earl;

Together with his Countess fair,

That was a most delicate Girl.

The next to him there lyeth one,

Sir Richard Peckshall hight;

Of whom we only this do say,

He was a Hampshire Knight.

But now to tell you more of him,

There lies beneath this Stone:

Two Wives of his, and Daughters four,

To all of Us unknown.

Sir Bernard Brockhurst there doth lie,

Lord Chamberlain to Queen Ann;

Queen Ann was Richard the Second's Queen,

And was King of England.

Sir Francis Hollis, the Lady Frances,

The same was Suffolk's Dutchess;

Two Children of Edward the Third,

Lie here in Death's cold Clutches.

This is the Third King Edward's Brother,

Of whom our Records tell

Nothing of Note, nor say they whether,

He be in Heaven or Hell.

This same was John of Eldeston,

He was no Costermonger;

But Cornwall's Earl, and here's one dy'd,

'Cause he could live no longer.

The Lady Mohun, Dutchess of York,

And Duke of York's Wife also;

But Death resolv'd to Horn the Duke,

She lies now with Death below.

The Lady Ann Ross, but wot ye well,

That she in Childbed dy'd;

The Lady Marquiss of Winchester,

Lies Buried by her side.

Now think your Penny well spent good Folks,

And that you're not beguil'd;

Within this Cup doth lie the Heart

Of a French Embassador's Child.

But how the Devil it came to pass,

On purpose, or by chance;

Dol. I warrant ye the Pharises carried it away.The Bowels they lie underneath,

The Body is in France.

There's Oxford's Countess, and there also

The Lady Burleigh her Mother;

And there her Daughter, a Countess too,

Lie close by one another.

These once were bonny Dames, and tho'

There were no Coaches then,

Dick. Ho, ho, ho, I warrant ye they did as other Women did, ha Ralf. Ralf. Oy, Oy.Yet could they jog their Tails themselves,

Or had them jogg'd by Men.

But woe is me! those high born Sinners;

That went to pray so stoutly;

Are now laid low, and 'cause they can't,

Their Statues pray devoutly.

This is the Dutchess of Somerset,

By Name the Lady Ann;

Tom. I have heard a Ballad of him sang at Ratcliff Cross. Mol. I believe we have it at home over our Kitchin Mantle-Tree.Her Lord Edward the Sixth Protected,

Oh! he was a Gallant Man.

In this fair Monument which you see,

Adorn'd with so many Pillars;

Doth lie the Countess of Buckingham,

And her Husband, Sir George Villers.

This old Sir George was Grandfather,

And the Countess she was Granny;

To the great Duke of Buckingham,

Who often topt King Jammy.

Sir Robert Eatam, a Scotch Knight,

This Man was Secretary;

And scribl'd Compliments for two Queens,

Queen Ann, and eke Queen Mary.

This was the Countess of Lenox,

Yclep'd the Lady Marget:

King James's Grandmother, and yet

'Gainst Death she had no Target.

This was Queen Mary, Queen of Scots,

Whom Buchanan doth bespatter;

Dol. How came she here then? Will. Why ye silly Oafe could not she be brought here, after she was Dead?She lost her Head at Tottingham,

What ever was the Matter.

The Mother of our Seventh Henry,

This is that lyeth hard by;

She was the Countess wot ye well,

Of Richmond and of Derby.

Henry the Seventh lieth here,

With his fair Queen beside him,

He was the Founder of this Chapel,

Oh! may no ill betide him.

Therefore his Monument's in Brass,

You'll say that very much is;

Rog. I warrant ye these were no small Fools in those days.The Duke of Richmond and Lenox,

There lieth with his Dutchess.

And here they stand upright in a Press

With Bodies made of Wax;

With a Globe and a Wand in either Hand,

And their Robes upon their Backs.

Here lies the Duke of Buckingham,

And the Dutchess his Wife;

Him Felton Stabb'd at Portsmouth Town,

And so he lost his Life.

Two Children of King James these are,

Whom Death keeps very chary;

Bess. Good Woman pray still your Child, it keeps such a bawling, we can't hear what the Man says.Sophia in the Cradle lies,

And this is the Lady Mary.

And this is Queen Elizabeth,

How the Spaniards did infest her?

Here she lies Buried, with Queen Mary,

And now agrees with her Sister.

To another Chapel now we come,

The People follow and chat;

This is the Lady Cottington,

And the People cry, who's that?

This is the Lady Frances Sidney,

The Countess of Suffolk was she;

And this the Lord Dudley Carleton is,

And then they look up and see.

Sir Thomas Brumley lieth here,

Death would him not reprieve;

With his four Sons, and Daughters four,

That once were all alive.

The next is Sir John Fullerton,

And this is his Lady I trow;

And this is Sir John Puckering,

Whom none of you did know.

That's the Earl of Bridgwater in the middle,

Who makes no use of his Bladder;

Although his Lady lie so near him,

And so we go up a Ladder.

Kate. He took more pains, than I would ha done for a Hundred such.Edward the First, that Gallant Blade,

Lies underneath this Stone;

And this is the Chair which he did bring,

A good while ago from Scone.

Ralf. Gad I warrant there has been many a Maiden-head got in that Chair. Tom. Gad and I'll come hither and try one of these Days, an't be but to get a Prince. Dol. A Papist I warrant him.In this same Chair, till now of late,

Our Kings and Queens were Crown'd;

Under this Chair another Stone

Doth lie upon the Ground.

On that same Stone did Jacob sleep,

Instead of a Down Pillow;

And after that 'twas hither brought,

By some good honest Fellow.

Richard the Second lieth here,

And his first Queen, Queen Ann;

Edward the Third lies here hard by,

Oh! there was a Gallant Man.

For this was his two handed Sword,

A Blade both true and Trusty;

The French Men's Blood was ne'er wip'd off,

Which makes it look so rusty.

Here he lies again, with his Queen Philip,

A Dutch Woman by Record,

But that's all one, for now alass!

His Blade's not so long as his Sword.

King Edward the Confessor lies

Within this Monument fine;

I'm sure, quoth one, a worser Tomb

Must serve both me and mine.

Harry the Fifth lies there, and there

Doth lie Queen Eleanor;

To our first Edward she was Wife,

Which was more than ye knew before.

Henry the Third lies there Entomb'd,

He was Herb John in Pottage;

Little he did, but still Reign'd on,

Although his Sons were at Age.

Fifty six Years he Reigned King,

E'er he the Crown would lay by;

Only we praise him, 'cause he was

Last Builder of the Abby.

Here Thomas Cecil lies, who's that?

Why 'tis the Earl of Exeter;

Dol. Ay, ay, I warrant her, rich Folks are as unwilling to die as poor Folks.And this his Countess is, to Die

How it perplexed her.

Here Henry Cary, Lord Hunsdon rests,

What a noise he makes with his Name?

Sisly. That's he for whom our Bells ring so often, is it not Mary? Mol. Ay, ay, the very same.Lord Chamberlain was he unto

Queen Elizabeth of great Fame.

And here's one William Colchester

Lies of a Certainty;

An Abbot was he of Westminster,

And he that saith no, doth lie.

This is the Bishop of Durham,

By Death here lay'd in Fetters;

Henry the Seventh lov'd him well,

And so he wrote his Letters.

Sir Thomas Bacchus, what of him?

Poor Gentleman not a Word;

Only they Buried him here; but now

Behold that Man with a Sword.

Humphry de Bohun, who though he were

Not born with me i'the same Town;

Yet I can tell he was Earl of Essex,

Of Hertford, and Northampton.

He was High Constable of England,

As History well expresses;

But now pretty Maids be of good Chear,

We're going up to the Presses.

And now the Presses open stand,

And ye see them all arow;

But never no more are said of these

Then what is said below.

Now down the Stairs come we again,

The Man goes first with a Staff;

Some two or three tumble down the Stairs,

And then the People laugh.

This is the great Sir Francis Vere,

That so the Spaniards curry'd;

Four Colonels support his Tomb,

And here his Body's Buried.

Dick. I warrant ye he had two, if he could have but kep'd 'em.That Statue against the Wall with one Eye,

Is Major General Norris;

He beat the Spaniards cruelly,

As is affirm'd in Stories.

His six Sons there hard by him stand,

Each one was a Commander;

To shew he could a Lady serve,

As well as the Hollander.

And there doth Sir John Hollis rest,

Who was the Major General;

To Sir John Norris, that brave blade,

And so they go to Dinner all.

For now the Shew is at an end,

All things are done and said;

The Citizen pays for his Wife,

The Prentice for the Maid.

* * *

A Song Sung by Mrs. Campion, in the Comedy call'd, she wou'd and she wou'd not. By Mr. John Weldon.


C?LIA my Heart has often rang'd,

Like Bees o'er Gaudy Flowers;

And many Thousand Loves have chang'd,

'Till it was fix'd, 'till it was fix'd on yours;

But C?lia when I saw those Eyes,

'Twas soon, 'twas soon determin'd there;

Stars might as well forsake the Skies,

And Vanish into Air:

Stars might as well forsake the Skies,

And Vanish into Air.

Now if from the great Rules I err,

New Beauties, new Beauties to admire;

May I again, again turn wanderer,

And never, never, never, never, never, no, never,

Never, never, never, never, never, never, never,

Never, never, never, settle more:

May I again, again turn wanderer,

And never, never, never, never, never, no, never,

Never, never, never, never, never, never, never,

Never, never, never, settle more.

* * *

A Song made for the Entertainment of her Royal Highness. Set by Mr. Leveridge. Sung by Mrs. Lindsey in Caligula.


THo' over all Mankind, besides my conquering Beauty,

Conquering beauty, my conquering beauty Reigns;

My conquering Beauty Reigns;

From him I love, from him I love when I meet disdain,

A killing damp, a killing damp comes o'er my Pride:

I'm fair and young, I'm fair and young,

I'm fair and young in vain:

I'm fair and young, I'm fair and young,

I'm fair and young in vain;

No, no, no, let him wander where he will,

Let him wander, let him wander,

Let him wander, let him wander where he will,

I shall have Youth and Beauty, Youth and Beauty,

Youth and Beauty,

I shall have Youth and Beauty, Youth and Beauty still;

I shall have Beauty that can charm a Jove,

Can Charm a Jove, and no fault,

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no fault, no, no, no fault,

But constant Love:

From my Arms then let him fly, fly, fly,

From my Arms then let him fly;

Shall I languish, pine, and dye?

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no not I.

* * *

A Song in the Fair Penitent. Set by

Mr. Eccles. Sung by Mrs. Hudson.


STAY, ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly?

Ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly?

Whither, whither wou'd you fly?

Too Charming, too Charming, too relentless Maid,

I follow not to conquer, not to conquer,

I follow not to conquer, but to dye:

You of the fearful, of the fearful are afraid,

Ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly?

Whither, whither, whither, whither, ah whither wou'd you fly?

In vain, in vain I call, in vain, in vain I call,

While she like fleeting, fleeting Air;

When press'd by some tempestuous Wind,

Flys swifter from the voice of my Despair:

Nor cast a pitying, pitying, pitying, pitying look behind,

No not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying look,

Not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind,

No not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind,

No not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind.

* * *

A new Song. The Words by Mr. Tho. Wall. Set to Musick by Mr. Henry Eccles, Junior.


NO more let Damon's Eyes pursue,

No more let Damon's Eyes pursue,

The bright enchanting Fair;

Almira thousands, thousands, thousands can undo,

And thousands more, and thousands more,

And thousands more may still despair,

And thousands more may still despair.

For oh her bright alluring Eyes,

And Graces all admire;

For her the wounded Lover dies,

And ev'ry Breast, and ev'ry Heart,

And ev'ry Breast is set on Fire.

Then oh poor Damon, see thy Fate,

But never more complain;

For all a Thousand Hearts will stake,

And all may sigh, and all may die,

And all may sigh and die in vain.

The Dear Joy's Lamentation.


HO my dear Joy, now what dost thou think?

Hoop by my shoul our Country-men stink;

To Ireland they can never return,

The Hereticks there our Houses will burn:

Ah hone, ah hone, ah hone a cree.

A Pox on T--l for a Son of a W--,

He was the cause of our coming o'er;

And when to Dublin we came to put on our Coats,

He told us his business was cutting of Throats.

Ah hone, &c.

Our Devil has left us now in the Lurch,

A Plague light upon the Protestant C--

If P--s had let but the Bishops alone,

O then the Nation had all been our own.

Ah hone, &c.

And I wish other Measures had been taken,

For now I fear we shan't save our Bacon;

Now Orange to London is coming down-right,

And the Soldiers against him resolve not to Fight

Ah hone, &c.

What we shall do, the Lord himself knows,

Our Army is beaten without any blows;

Our M--r begins to feel some remorse,

For the Grey Mare has proved the better Horse.

Ah hone, &c.

If the French do but come, which is all our Hopes,

We'll bundle the Hereticks all up with Ropes;

If London stands to us as Bristol has done,

We need not fear but Orange must run.

Ah hone, &c.

But if they prove false, and to Orange they scower,

By G-- all the M-- shall play from the Tower;

Our Massacree fresh in their Memories grown,

The Devil tauk me, we all shall go down.

A hone, a hone, a hone a Cree.

* * *

The Character of a Seat's-man; written by one of the Craft: To be Sung on Crispin-Night. Tune Packington's Pound.


I Am one in whom Nature has fix'd a Decree,

Ordaining my Life to happy and free;

With no Cares of the World I am never perplex'd,

And never depending, I never am vex'd:

I'm neither of so high nor so low a degree,

But Ambition and Want are both strangers to me;

My life is a compound of Freedom and Ease,

I go where I will, and I work when I please:

I live above Envy, and yet above Spight,

And have Judgment enough for to do my self right;

Some greater and richer I own there may be,

Yet as many live worse, as live better than me,

And few that from Cares live so quiet and free.

When Money comes in I live well 'till it's gone,

So with it I'm happy, Content when I've none:

I spend it Genteelly, and never repent,

If I lose it at Play, why I count it but Lent:

For that which at one time I Lose among Friends,

Another Night's Winnings still makes me amends:

And though I'm without the first Day of the Week,

I still make it out by Shift or by Tick:

In Mirth at my Work the swift Hours do pass,

And by Saturday Night, I'm as rich as I was.

Then let Masters drudge on, and be Slaves to their Trade,

Let their Hours of Pleasure by Business be stay'd;

Let them venture their Stocks to be ruin'd by Trust,

Let Clickers bark on the whole Day at their Post:

Let 'em tire all that pass with their rotified Cant,

"Will you buy any Shoes, pray see what you want";

Let the rest of the World still contend to be great,

Let some by their Losses repine at their Fate:

Let others that Thrive, not content with their store,

Be plagu'd with the Trouble and Thoughts to get more.

Let wise Men invent, 'till the World be deceived,

Let Fools thrive thro' Fortune, and Knaves be believed;

Let such as are rich know no Want, but Content,

Let others be plagu'd to pay Taxes and Rent:

With more Freedom and Pleasure my Time I'll employ,

And covet no Blessings but what we enjoy.

Then let's celebrate Crispin with Bumpers and Songs,

And they that drink Foul, may it blister their Tongues,

Here's two in a Hand, and let no one deny 'em,

Since Crispin in Youth was a Seat's-man as I am.

* * *

The Female Scuffle. To the foregoing Tune.

OF late in the Park a fair Fancy was seen,

Betwixt an old Baud and a lusty young Quean;

Their parting of Money began the uproar,

I'll have half says the Baud, but you shan't says the Whore:

Why 'tis my own House,

I care not a Louse,

I'll ha' three parts in four, or you get not a Souse.

'Tis I, says the Whore, must take all the Pains,

And you shall be damn'd e'er you get all the Gains;

The Baud being vex'd, straight to her did say,

Come off wi' your Duds, and I pray pack away,

And likewise your Ribbonds, your Gloves, and your Hair,

For naked you came, and so out you go bare;

Then Buttocks so bold,

Began for to Scold,

Hurrydan was not able her Clack for to hold.

Both Pell-Mell fell to't, and made this uproar,

With these Compliments, th'art a Baud, th'art a Whore:

The Bauds and the Buttocks that liv'd there around,

Came all to the Case, both Pockey and Sound,

To see what the reason was of this same Fray,

That did so disturb them before it was Day;

If I tell you amiss,

Let me never more Piss,

This Buttocks so bold she named was Siss.

By Quiffing with Cullies three Pound she had got,

And but one part of four must fall to her Lot;

Yet all the Bauds cry'd, let us turn her out bare,

Unless she will yield to return her half share;

If she will not, we'll help to strip off her Cloaths,

And turn her abroad with a slit o' the Nose:

Who when she did see,

There was no Remedy,

For her from the Tyranous Bauds to get free;

The Whore from the Money was forced to yield,

And in the Conclusion the Baud got the Field.

* * *

An Elegy on Mountfort. To the foregoing Tune.

POOR Mountfort is gone, and the Ladies do all

Break their Hearts for this Beau, as they did for Duvall;

And they the two Brats for this Tragedy damn

At Kensington Court, and the Court of Bantam,

They all vow and Swear,

That if any Peer,

Should acquit this young Lord, he shou'd pay very dear;

Nor will they be pleased with him who on the Throne is,

If he do's not his part to revenge their Adonis.

With the Widow their amorous Bowels do yearn,

There are divers pretend to an equal Concern;

And by her Perswasion their Hearts they reveal,

In case if not guilty, to bring an Appeal:

They all will unite,

The young Blade to indite,

And in Prosecution will joyn Day and Night;

In the mean time full many a Tear and a Groan is,

Wherever they meet, for their departed Adonis.

With the Ladies foul Murther's a horrible Sin

Of one Handsome without, tho' a Coxcomb within;

For not being a Beau, the sad Fate of poor Crab,

Tho' himself hang'd for Love, was a Jest to each Drab;

Then may Jering live long,

And may Risby among

The Fair with Jack Barkley, and Culpepper throng:

May no Ruffin whose Heart as hard as a Stone is,

Kill any of those for a Brother Adonis.

No Lady henceforth can be safe with her Beau,

They think if this Slaughter unpunish'd should go;

Their Gallants, for whose Persons they most are in Pain,

Must no sooner be envy'd, but strait must be Slain:

For all B-- shape,

None car'd for the Rape,

Nor whether the Virtuous their Lust did escape;

Their Trouble of Mind, and their anguish alone is,

For the too sudden Fate of departed Adonis.

Let not every vain Spark think that he can engage,

The Heart of a Female, like one on the Stage;

His Flute, and his Voice, and his Dancing are rare,

And wherever they meet, they prevail with the Fair:

But no quality Fop,

Charms like Mr. Hop,

Adorn'd on the Stage, and in East-India Shop;

So that each from Miss Felton, to ancient Drake Joan is,

Bemoaning the Death of the Player Adonis.

Yet Adonis in spight of this new Abjuration,

Did banter the lawful King of this great Nation:

Who call'd God's anointed a foolish old Prig,

Was both a base and unmannerly Whigg:

But since he is Dead

No more shall be said,

For he in Repentance has laid down his Head;

So I wish each Lady, who in mournful Tone is,

In Charity Grieve for the Death of Adonis.

* * *


Set by Mr. James Townshend, Organist

of Lyn Riges. The Words by J.R.


FLY Damon fly, 'tis Death to stay,

Nor listen to the Syren's Song;

Nor hear her warbling Fingers play,

That kills in Consort with her Tongue:

Oft to despairing Shepherds Verse,

Unmov'd she tunes the trembling Strings;

Oft does some pitying Words rehearse,

But little means the thing she Sings.

Cease on her lovely Looks to gaze,

Nor court your Ruin in her Eyes;

Her Looks too 's dangerous as her Face,

At once engages and Destroys:

Speak not if you'd avoid your Fate,

For then she darts Resentment home;

But fly, fly Damon e'er too late,

Or else be Deaf, be Blind, be Dumb.

Mercury to Paris, in the Prize Musick,

Compos'd by Mr. John Eccles.


FEAR not Mortal, none shall harm thee,

With this Sacred Rod I'll Charm thee;

Freely gaze, and view all over,

Thou mayst every Grace discover:

Though a thousand Darts fly round thee,

Fear not Mortal, none can Wound thee;

Though a thousand Darts fly round thee,

Fear not Mortal, none can Wound thee.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. W. Morley.


BORN to surprize the World,

Born to surprize the World, and teach the Great,

The slippery Danger of exalted State;

Victorious Marlborough, Victorious Marlborough, to Battle flies,

Arm'd, Arm'd with new Lightning from bright Anna's Eyes:

Wonders, Wonders like these no former Age has seen,

The Subjects Heroes, the Subjects Heroes, and a Saint the Queen.

A Song. Set by Mr. J. ISUM.


IN vain, in vain, in vain, in vain, in vain,

In vain the God I ask,

He'll ne'er remove the Dart;

And still I love the pretty, pretty Boy,

Altho', altho' he wound my Heart:

Henceforth I'll be contented then,

No more will I desire;

No, no, no more, no, no, no more will I desire,

To slight her whom I love so much,

That but creates the Fire:

Well might I expect the Fate,

As well as any other;

Since he ne'er spares the Gods themselves,

Nor does he spare his Mother.

* * *

An Amorous Song. To the Tune of, The

bonny Christ-Church Bells.


SEE how fair and fine she lies,

Upon her Bridal Bed;

No Lady at the Court,

So fit for the Sport,

Oh she look'd so curiously White and Red:

After the first and second time,

The weary Bridegroom slacks his Pace;

But Oh! she cries, come, come my Joy,

And cling thy Cheek close to my Face:

Tinkle, tinkle, goes the Bell under the Bed,

Whilst Time and Touch they keep;

Then with a Kiss,

They end their Bliss,

And so fall fast asleep.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. J. ISUM.


CORINNA if my Fate's to love you,

Corinna if my Fate's to love you,

Where's the harm in saying so?

Corinna if my Fate's to love you,

Where's the harm in saying so?

Why shou'd my Sighs, why shou'd my Sighs,

Why shou'd my Sighs and Fondness move you?

To encrease, to encrease your Shepherd's Woe:

Flame pent in still burns and scorches,

'Till it burns a Lover's Heart:

Love declar'd like lighted Torches,

Wastes it self and gives less Pain:

Love declar'd like lighted Torches,

Wastes it self, wastes it self,

Wastes it self, and gives less Smart.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. JOHN ISUM.


C?LIA's Charms are past expressing,

Were she kind as she is Fair;

C?lia's Charms are past expressing,

Were she kind as she is Fair:

Heav'ns cou'd grant no greater Blessing,

Nor Earth a Nymph more worth our Care;

Heav'ns cou'd grant no greater Blessing,

Nor Earth a Nymph, nor Earth a Nymph more worth our Care.

But Unkindness, Unkindness mars her Beauty,

And useless makes that Heav'nly,

That Heav'nly, that Heav'nly frame;

But Unkindness mars her Beauty,

And useless makes that Heav'nly, Heav'nly frame:

While she mistakes and calls that Duty,

Which ill Nature others name:

While she mistakes and calls that Duty,

Which ill Nature others name.

* * *

The Hopeful Bargain: Or a Fare for a Hackney-Coachman, giving a Comical relation, how an Ale-draper at the Sign of the Double-tooth'd Rake in or near the new Palace-yard, Westminster, Sold his Wife for a Shilling, and how she was sold a Second time for five Shillings to Judge; My Lord -- Coachman, and how her Husband receiv'd her again after she had lain with other Folks three Days and Nights, &c. The Tune Lilly Bullero.


THERE lives an Ale-draper near New-palace-yard,

Who used to Jerk the Bum of his Wife;

And she was forced to stand on her Guard,

To keep his Clutches from her Quoiff:

She poor Soul the weaker Vessel,

To be reconcil'd was easily won;

He held her in scorn,

But she Crown'd him with Horn,

Without Hood or Scarff, and rough as she run.

He for a Shilling sold his Spouse,

And she was very willing to go;

And left the poor Cuckold alone in the House,

That he by himself his Horn might blow:

A Hackney Coachman he did buy her,

And was not this a very good Fun;

With a dirty Pinner,

As I am a Sinner,

Without Hood or Scarff, but rough as she run.

The Woman gladly did depart,

Between three Men was handed away;

He for her Husband did care not a Fart,

He kept her one whole Night and Day:

Then honest Judge the Coachman bought her,

And was not this most cunningly done?

Gave for her five Shilling,

To take her was willing,

Without Hood or Scarff, &c.

The Cuckold to Judge, a Letter did send,

Wherein he did most humbly crave;

Quoth he, I prithee, my Rival Friend,

My Spouse again I fain would have:

And if you will but let me have her,

I'll pardon what she e'er has done;

I swear by my Maker,

Again I will take her,

Without Hood and Scarff, &c.

He sent an old Baud to interceed,

And to perswade her to come back;

That he might have one of her delicate breed,

And he would give her a ha'p'uth of Sack:

Therefore prithee now come to me,

Or else poor I shall be undone:

Then do not forgo me,

But prithee come to me,

Without Hood or Scarff, tho' rough, &c.

The Coachman then with much ado,

Did suffer the Baud to take her out;

Upon the Condition that she would be true,

And let him have now and then a Bout:

But he took from her forty Shillings,

And gave her a parting Glass at the Sun;

And then with good buyt' ye,

Discharged his Duty,

And turn'd her a grazing, rough as she run.

The Cuckold invited the Coachman to dine,

And gave him a Treat at his own Expence;

They drown'd all Cares in full brimmers of Wine,

He made him as welcome as any Prince:

There was all the Hungregation,

Which from Cuckolds-Point was come;

They kissed and fumbled,

They touzed and tumbled,

He was glad to take her rough as she run.

Judge does enjoy her where he list,

He values not the old Cuckold's Pouts;

And she is as good for the Game as e'er pist,

Fudge on his Horns sits drying of Clouts:

She rants and revels when she pleases,

And to end as I begun,

The Horned Wise-acre,

Is forced to take her

Without Hood or Scarff, and rough as she run.

* * *

The Maiden Lottery: Containing 70 Thousand Tickets, at a Guinea each; the Prizes being Rich and Loving Husbands, from three Thousand to one Hundred a Year, which Lottery will begin to draw on next Valentine's Day.

Then pretty Lasses venture now,

Kind Fortune may her Smiles alow.


YOUNG Ladies that live in the City,

Sweet beautiful proper and Tall;

And Country Maids who dabling wades,

Here's happy good News for you all:

A Lottery now out of hand,

Erected will be in the Strand;

Young Husbands with Treasure, and Wealth out of measure

Will fairly be at your Command:

Of her that shall light of a Fortunate Lot,

There's Six of three Thousand a Year to be got.

I tell you the Price of each Ticket,

It is but a Guinea, I'll vow;

Then hasten away, and make no delay,

And fill up the Lottery now:

If Gillian that lodges in Straw,

Shall have the good Fortune to draw

A Knight or a 'Squire, he'll never deny her,

'Tis fair and according to Law;

Then come pretty Lasses and purchase a Lot,

There's Ten of two Thousand a Year to be got.

The number is Seventy Thousand,

When all the whole Lot is compleat;

Five Hundred of which, are Prizes most rich,

Believe me for this is no Cheat:

There's Drapers and Taylors likewise,

Brave Men that you cannot despise;

Come Bridget and Jenny, and throw in your Guinea,

A Husband's a delicate Prize:

Then come pretty Lasses and purchase a Lot,

There's Ten of one Thousand a Year to be got.

Suppose you should win for your Guinea,

A Man of three Thousand a Year;

Would this not be brave; what more would you have?

You soon might in Glory appear:

In glittering Coach you may ride,

With Lackeys to run by your side;

For why should you spare it? Faith win Gold and wear it;

Now who would not be such a Bride?

Then come pretty Lasses and purchase a Lot,

There's Sixty, Five Hundreds a Year to be got.

Old Widows, and Maids above Forty,

Shall not be admitted to draw:

There's five Hundred and Ten, as proper young Men,

Indeed, as your Eyes ever saw:

Who scorns for one Guinea of Gold,

To lodge with a Woman that's Old;

Young Maids are admitted, in hopes to be fitted,

With Husbands couragious and bold:

Then come pretty Lasses and purchase a Lot,

There are wealthy kind Husbands now, now to be got.

Kind Men that are full of good Nature,

The flaxen, the black, and the brown;

Both lusty and stout, and fit to hold out,

The prime and the top of the Town:

So clever in every part,

They'll please a young Girl to the Heart;

Nay, kiss you, and squeese you, and tenderly please you,

For Love has a conquering Dart:

Then come pretty Lasses and purchase a Lot,

There are Wealthy kind Husbands now, now to be got.

Then never be fearful to venture,

But Girls bring you Guineas away;

Come merrily in, for we shall begin,

To draw upon Valentine's Day:

The Prizes are many and great,

Each Man with a worthy Estate;

Then come away Mary, Sib, Susan, and Sarah,

Joan, Nancy, and pretty fac'd Kate:

For now is the time if you'll purchase a Lot,

While Wealthy kind Husbands they are to be got.

Amongst you I know there is many,

Will miss of a Capital Prize:

Yet nevertheless, no Sorrows express,

But dry up your watry Eyes:

Young Lasses it is but in vain,

In sorrowful Sighs to complain;

Then ne'er be faint hearted, tho' Luck be departed,

For all cannot reckon to gain:

Yet venture young Lasses, your Guineas bring in,

The Lucky will have the good Fortune to win.



COME Beaus, Virtuoso's, rich Heirs and Musicians

Away, and in Troops to the Jubile jog;

Leave Discord and Death, to the College Physicians,

Let the Vig'rous whore on, and the impotent Flog:

Already Rome opens her Arms to receive ye,

And ev'ry Transgression her Lord will forgive ye.

Indulgences, Pardons, and such Holy Lumber,

As cheap there is now as our Cabbages grown;

While musty old Relicks of Saints without number,

For barely the looking upon, shall be shown:

These, were you an Atheist, must needs overcome ye,

That first were made Martyrs, and afterwards Mummy.

They'll shew ye the River, so Sung by the Poets,

With the Rock from whence, Mortals were knockt o'th' Head;

They'll shew ye the place too, as some will avow it,

Where once a She Pope was brought fairly to Bed:

For which, ever since, to prevent Interloping,

In a Chair her Successors still suffer a Groping.

What a sight 'tis to see the gay Idol accoutred,

With Mitre and Cap, and two Keys by his side;

Be his inside what 'twill, yet the Pomp of his outward,

Shows Servus servorum, no hater of Pride,

These Keys into Heav'n will as surely admit ye,

As Clerks of a Parish to a Pew in the City.

What a sight 'tis to see the old Man in Procession,

Through Rome in such Pomp as here C?sar did ride,

Now scattering of Pardons, here Crossing, there Blessing,

With all his shav'd Spiritual Train'd-bans by his side;

As, Confessors, Cardinals, Monks fat as Bacons,

From Rev'rend Arch-Bishops, to Rosie Arch-Deacons.

Then for your Diversion the more to regale ye,

Fine Music you'll hear, and high Dancing you'll see;

Men who much shall out-warble your Famous Fideli,

And make ye meer Fools, of Balloon and L'Abbe:

And to shew ye how fond they're to Kiss Vostre Manos,

Each Padre turns Pimp, all Nuns Courtezana's.

And when you've some Months at old Babylon been-a,

And on Pardons, and Punks, all your Rhino is spent;

And when you have seen all, that there is to be seen-a,

You'll return not so Rich, tho' as Wise as you went:

And 'twill be but small Comfort after so much Expence-a,

That your Heirs will do just so an Hundred Years hence-a.

A Young Man's WILL.


A Young Man sick and like to die,

His last Will being written found;

I give my Soul to God on high,

And my Body to the Ground:

Unto some Church-men do I give,

Base Minds to greedy Lucre bent;

Pride and Ambition whilst they live,

By this my Will and Testament.

Item. Poor folks brown Bread I give,

And eke bare Bones, with hungry Cheeks;

Toil and Travel whilst they live,

And to feed on Roots and Leeks:

Item. To Rich Men I bestow,

High Looks, low Deeds, and Hearts of Flint;

And that themselves they seldom know,

By this, &c.

Proud stately Courtiers do I Will,

Two Faces in one Head to wear,

For Great Men Bribes, I think most fit,

Pride and Oppression through the Year:

Tenants I give them leave to lose,

And Landlords for to raise their Rent;

Rogues to Fawn, Collogue and glose,

By this, &c.

Item. To Soldiers for their Fees,

I give them Wounds their Bodies full;

And for to beg on bended Knees,

With Cap in Hand to every Gull:

Item. I will poor Scholars have,

For all their Pains and Travel spent:

Raggs, Jaggs, and Taunts of every Knave,

By this my Will and Testament.

To Shoemakers I grant this Boon,

Which Mercury gave them once before;

Altho' they earn two Pence by Noon,

To spend e'er Night two Groats and more:

And Blacksmiths when the Work is done,

I give to them incontinent,

To drink two Barrels with a Bun,

By this my Will and Testament.

To Weavers swift, this do I leave,

Against that may beseem them well:

That they their good Wives do deceive,

Bring home a Yard and steal an Ell:

And Taylors too must be set down,

A Gift to give them I am bent;

To cut four Sleeves to every Gown,

By this, &c.

To Tavern haunters grant I more,

Red Eyes, Red Nose, and Stinking Breath;

And Doublets foul with drops before,

And foul Shame until their Death:

And Gamesters that will never leave,

Before their Substance be all spent;

The Wooden Dagger I bequeath,

By this, &c.

To common Fidlers I Will that they,

Shall go in poor and thread-bare Coats;

And at most places where they Play,

To carry away more Tunes than Groats:

To wand'ring Players I do give,

Before their Substance be all spent;

Proud Silk'n Beggars for to live,

By this, &c.

To Wenching Smell-smocks give I these,

Dead looks, gaunt purrs, and crasy Back;

And now and then the foul Disease,

Such as Gill gave to Jack;

To Parretors I give them clear,

For all their Toil and Travel spent;

The Devil away such Knaves to bear,

By this my Will and Testament.

I Will that Cutpurses haunt all Fairs,

And thrust among the thickest Throng;

That neither Purse nor Pocket spare,

But what they get to bear along:

But if they Falter in their Trade,

And so betray their bad intent;

I give them Tyburn for their share,

By this my Will and Testament.

To serving Men I give this Gift,

That when their Strength is once decay'd;

The Master of such Men do shift,

As Horsemen do a toothless Jade:

Item. I give them leave to Pine,

For all their Service so ill spent:

And with Duke Humphry for to Dine,

By this, &c.

Item. To Millers I Grant withal,

That they Spare, nor Poke, nor Sack;

But with Grist, so e'er befal,

They Grind a Strike, and steal a Peck:

I Will that Butchers Huff their Meat,

And sell a lump of Ramish scent;

For Weather Mutton good and sweet,

By this, &c.

I Will Ale Wives punish their Guests,

With hungry Cakes and little Canns;

And Barm their Drink with new found Yeest,

Such as is made of Pispot Grounds:

And she that meaneth for to Gain,

And in her House have Money spent,

I Will she keep a pretty Punck,

By this my Will and Testament.

To jealous Husbands I do grant,

Lack of Pleasure, want of Sleep;

That Lanthorn Horns they never want,

Tho' ne'er so close their Wives they keep:

And for their Wives, I Will that they,

The closer up that they are pent;

The closer still they seek to Play,

By this my Will and Testament.

For Swearing Swaggerers nought is left,

To give them for a parting Blow;

But leaving off of damned Oaths,

And that of them I will bestow:

Item. I give them for their Pain,

That when all Hope and Livelihood's spent,

A Wallet or a Hempen Chain,

By this &c.

Time and longest Livers do I make,

The Supervisor of my Will:

My Gold and Silver let them take,

That will dig for't in Malvein Hill.

A New Song, Sung at the Playhouse. By

Mr. Dogget.


IN the Devil's Country there lately did dwell,

A crew of such Whores as was ne'er bred in Hell,

The Devil himself he knows it full well,

Which no Body can deny, deny;

Which no Body can deny.

There were Six of the Gang, and all of a Bud,

Which open'd as soon as got into the Blood,

There are five to be hang'd, when the other proves good,

Which no Body, &c.

But it seems they have hitherto sav'd all their Lives,

Since they cou'd not live honest, there's four made Wives,

The other two they are not Marry'd but Sw--s,

Which no Body, &c.

The Eldest the Matron of t'other Five Imps,

Though as Chast as Diana, or any o'th' Nymphs,

Yet rather than Daughter shall want it, she Pimps,

Which no Body, &c.

Damn'd Proud and Ambitious both Old and the Young,

And not fit for honest Men to come among,

A damn'd Itch in their Tail, and a sting in their Tongue,

Sing tantara rara Whores all, Whores all,

Sing tantara rara Whores all.

* * *



MARRIAGE it seems is for Better for Worse,

Some count it a Blessing and others a Curse;

The Cuckolds are Blest if the Proverb prove true,

And then there's no doubt but in Heav'n there's enough:

Of honest rich Rogues who ne'er had got there,

If their Wives had not sent them thro' trembling and fear.

Some Women are Honest, tho' rare in a Wife,

Yet with Scolding and Brawling they'll shorten your Life,

You ne'er can enjoy your Bottle and Friend;

But your Wife like an Imp, is at your Elbow's end:

Crying fie, fie you Sot, come, come, come, come,

So these are Unhappy abroad and at home.

We find the Batchelor liveth best,

Tho' Drunk or Sober he takes his rest;

He never is troubl'd with Scolding or Strife,

'Tis the best can be said of a very good Wife:

But merrily Day and Night does spend,

Enjoying his Mistress, Bottle, and Friend.

A Woman out-wits us, do what we can,

She'll make a Fool of ev'ry Wise Man;

Old Mother Eve did the Serpent obey,

And has taught all her Sex that damnable way:

Of Cheating and Couzening all Mankind,

'Twere better if Adam had still been Blind.

The poor Man that Marries he thinks he does well,

I pity's Condition, for sure he's in Hell;

The Fool is a Sotting and spends all he gets,

The Child is a Bawling, the Wife daily Frets:

That Marriage is pleasant we all must agree,

Consider it well, there's none happier can be.



THE Caffalier was gone, and the Roundhead he was come,

Was the greatest Blessing under the Sun;

Before the Devil in Hell sally'd out, and ript the Placket of Letter,

Ay, and take her Money too,

Cot bless hur Master Roundhead, and send hur well to do.

Now hur can go to Shrewsperry her Flannel for to sell,

Hur can carry a creat sharge of Money about hur,

Thirty or Forty Groats lap'd in a Welsh Carter,

Ay, and think hur self rich too,

Cot bless, &c.

Now hur can coe to Shurch, or hur can stay at home,

Hur can say hur Lord's Prayer, or hur can let it alone:

Hur can make a Prayer of hur own Head, lye with hur Holy Sister,

Ay, and say a long Crace too,

Cot bless, &c.

But yet for all the great Cood that you for hur have done,

Would you wou'd made Peace with our King, and let hur come home,

Put off the Military Charge, Impost, and Excise,

Ay, and free Quarter too.

Then Cot shall bless you Master Roundhead, and send hur well to do.

* * *

A Song Sung by Mrs. Cross. Set by

Mr. Jeremiah Clark.


DIVINE Astrea hither flew,

To Cynthia's brighter Throne;

She left the Iron World below,

To bless the Silver Moon:

She left the Iron World below,

To bless the Silver Moon.

Tho' Ph?bus with his hotter Beams,

Do's Gold in Earth Create;

That leads those wretches to Extreams,

Of Av'rice, Lust, and Hate.

* * *

A Song in the Surpriz'd Lovers. Set by

Mr. John Eccles, Sung by Mr. Bowman.


WHEN first I saw her charming Face,

Her taking Shape and moving Grace;

My Rosie Cheeks, my Rosie Cheeks did glow with heat,

My Heart and my Pulse did beat, beat, beat,

My Heart and my Pulse did beat;

I wish'd for a, I wish'd for a, do you, do you guess what,

Do you guess what makes Soldiers fight,

Soldiers Fight, and States-men Plot.

Subdues us all in every thing,

And makes, makes a Subject of a King;

Still she deny'd, and I reply'd,

Away she flew, I did pursue,

At last I catch'd her fast;

But oh! had you seen, but oh! had you seen,

Had you seen what had past between;

Oh! I fear, I fear, oh! I fear, I fear, oh! I fear,

I fear, I fear, I have spoil'd her Wast.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. Akeroyd.


THE Devil he pull'd of his Jacket of Flame,

The Fryer he pull'd off his Cowle;

The Devil took him for a Dunce of the Game,

And the Fryer took him for a Fool:

He piqu'd, and repiqu'd so oft, that at last,

He swore by the Jolly fat Nuns;

If Cards came no better than those that are past,

Oh! oh! I shall lose all my Buns.

* * *

A New Song. Translated from the



PRETTY Parret say, when I was away,

And in dull absence pass'd the Day;

What at home was doing;

With Chat and Play,

We are Gay,

Night and Day,

Good Chear and Mirth Renewing;

Singing, Laughing all, Singing Laughing all, like pretty pretty Poll.

Was no Fop so rude, boldly to Intrude,

And like a sawcy Lover wou'd,

Court, and Teaze my Lady:

A Thing you know,

Made for Show,

Call'd a Beau,

Near her was always ready,

Ever at her call, like pretty, pretty Poll.

Tell me with what Air, he approach'd the Fair,

And how she could with Patience bear,

All he did and utter'd;

He still address'd,

Still caress'd,

Kiss'd and press'd,

Sung, Prattl'd, Laugh'd, and Flutter'd:

Well receiv'd in all, like pretty, pretty Poll.

Did he go away, at the close of the Day,

Or did he ever use to stay

In a Corner dodging;

The want of Light,

When 'twas Night,

Spoil'd my sight,

But I believe his Lodging,

Was within her call, like pretty, pretty Poll.

* * *

A Song by a Person of Honour. Set by

Mr. John Weldon.


AT Noon in a sultry Summer's Day,

The brightest Lady of the May,

Young Chloris Innocent and Gay,

Sat Knotting in a shade:

Each slender Finger play'd its part,

With such activity and Art;

As wou'd inflame a Youthful Heart,

And warm the most decay'd.

Her Fav'rite Swain by chance came by;

She had him quickly in her Eye,

Yet when the bashful Boy drew nigh,

She wou'd have seem'd afraid,

She let her Iv'ry Needle fall,

And hurl'd away the twisted Ball;

Then gave her Strephon such a call,

As wou'd have wak'd the Dead.

Dear gentle Youth is't none but thee?

With Innocence I dare be free;

By so much Trust and Modesty,

No Nymph was e'er betray'd,

Come lean thy Head upon my Lap,

While thy soft Cheeks I stroak and clap;

Thou may'st securely take a Nap,

Which he poor Fool, obey'd.

She saw him Yawn, and heard him Snore,

And found him fast a sleep all o're;

She sigh'd -- and cou'd no more,

But starting up she said,

Such Vertue shou'd rewarded be,

For this thy dull Fidelity;

I'll trust thee with my Flocks, not me,

Pursue thy Grazing Trade.

Go milk thy Goats, and Sheer thy Sheep,

And watch all Night thy Flocks, to keep;

Thou shalt no more be lull'd asleep,

By me mistaken Maid.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. Jeremy Clark.


WHILE the Lover is thinking,

With my Friend I'll be Drinking

And with Vigour pursue my Delight;

While the Fool is designing,

His fatal confining,

With Bacchus I'll spend the whole Night:

With the God I'll be Jolly,

Without Madness or Folly.

Fickle Woman to Marry Implore,

Leave my Bottle and Friend,

For so Foolish an end,

When I do, may I never Drink more.

* * *

A Health to the Tackers.


HERE's a Health to the Tackers, my Boys,

But mine A--se for the Tackers about;

May the brave English Spirits come in,

And the Knaves and Fanaticks turn out:

Since the Magpyes of late, are confounding the State,

And wou'd pull our Establishments down;

Let us make 'em a Jest, for they Shit in their Nest,

And be true to the Church and the Crown.

Let us chuse such Parliament Men

As have stuck to their Principles tight;

And wou'd not their Country betray

In the Story of Ashby and White:

Who care not a T--d, for a Whig, or a Lord,

That won't see our Accounts fairly stated;

For C--ll ne'er fears, the Address of those Peers,

Who the Nation of Millions have Cheated.

The next thing adviseable is,

Since Schism so strangely abounds;

To oppose e'ery Man that's set up

By Dissenters, in Corporate Towns:

For High-Church, and Low-Church, has brought us to no Church,

And Conscience so bubbl'd the Nation;

For who is not still for Conformity Bill,

Will be surely a R-- on Occasion.

* * *


Set by Mr. Anthony Young.


SINCE C?lia only has the Art,

And only she can Captivate,

And wanton in my Breast;

All other Pleasure I despise,

Than what are from my C?lia's Eyes,

In her alone I'm blest.

Whene'er she Smiles, new Life she gives,

And happy, happy who receives,

From her Inchanting Breath;

Then prithee C?lia smile once more,

Since I no longer must adore,

For when you frown 'tis Death.

* * *



AH! how lovely sweet and dear,

Is the kind relenting Fair,

Who Reprieve us in Despair;

Oh! that thus my Nymph wou'd say,

Come, come my Dear thy Cares repay,

Be Blest my Love, be mine to Day:

Come, come my dear, thy Cares repay,

Be blest my Love, be mine to Day.

* * *

A Song. Sung by Mrs. Bracegirdle.


ADvance, advance, advance gay Tenants of the Plain,

Advance, advance, advance, gay Tenants of the Plain,

Loud Eccho spread my Voice,

Loud Eccho spread my Voice,

Loud Eccho, loud Eccho, loud Eccho,

Loud Eccho, loud Eccho, spread my Voice,

Advance, advance, advance, gay Tenants of the Plain,

Advance, advance, advance, gay Tenants of the Plain.

* * *

The King and the Shepherd, and GILLIAN the Shepherd's Wife, with her churlish Answer to the King.


IN Elder Time, there was of Yore,

When Guides of churlish Glee;

Were us'd among our Country Earls,

Though no such thing now be.

The which King Alfred liking well,

Forsook his stately Court;

And in Disguise unknown went forth,

To see that jovial Sport.

How Dick and Tom, in clouted Shoon,

And Coats of russet Grey,

Esteem'd themselves more brave than them,

That went in Golden ray.

In Garments fit for such a Life,

The good King Alfred went,

All ragg'd and torn, as from his Back

The Beggar his Cloaths had rent.

A Sword and Buckler good and strong,

To give Jack Sauce a rap;

And on his Head, instead of Crown,

He wore a Monmouth Cap.

Thus coasting through Somersetshire,

Near Newton Court he met

A Shepherd Swain of lusty Limb,

That up and down did jet.

He wore a Bonnet of good Grey,

Close buttoned to his Chin;

And at his Back a leather Scrip,

With much good Meat therein.

God speed, good Shepherd, quoth the King,

I come to be thy Guest;

To taste of thy good Victuals here,

And drink that's of the best.

Thy Scrip I know, hath Cheer good store,

What then the Shepherd said?

Thou seem'st to be some sturdy Thief,

And mak'st me sore afraid.

Yet if thou wilt thy Dinner win,

The Sword and Buckler take;

And if thou canst into my Scrip,

Therewith an entrance make.

I tell thee, Roister, it hath store

Of Beef, and Bacon fat;

With sheafs of Barly-bread to make

Thy Mouth to water at.

Here stands my Bottle, here my Bag,

If thou canst win them Roister;

Against the Sword and Buckler here,

My Sheep-hook is my Master.

Benedicit now, quoth our good King,

It never shall be said;

That Alfred of the Shepherd's Hook,

Will stand a whit afraid.

So soundly thus they both fell to't,

And giving Bang for Bang;

At every Blow the Shepherd gave,

King Alfred's Sword cry'd twang.

His Buckler prov'd his chiefest Fence,

For still the Shepherd's Hook;

Was that the which King Alfred could,

In no good manner brook.

At last when they had fought four Hours,

And it grew just Mid-day;

And wearied both, with right good Will,

Desir'd each others stay.

King, Truce I cry, quoth Alfred then,

Good Shepherd hold thy Hand:

A sturdier Fellow than thy self,

Lives not within this Land.

Nor a lustier Roister than thou art,

The churlish Shepherd said,

To tell thee plain, thy Thievish looks,

Now makes my Heart afraid.

Else sure thou art some Prodigal,

Which hast consum'd thy store;

And now com'st wand'ring in this place,

To rob and steal for more.

Deem not of me, then quoth our King,

Good Shepherd in this sort;

A Gentleman well known I am,

In good King Alfred's Court.

The Devil thou art, the Shepherd said,

Thou goest in Rags all torn;

Thou rather seem'st, I think to be,

Some Beggar basely born.

But if thou wilt mend thy Estate,

And here a Shepherd be;

At Night to Gillian my sweet Wife,

Thou shalt go home with me.

For she's as good a Toothless Dame,

As mumbleth on Brown Bread;

Where thou shalt lie on hurden Sheets,

Upon a fresh Straw Bed.

Of Whig and Whey, we have good store,

And keep good Pease-straw Fires;

And now and then good Barly Cakes,

As better Days requires.

But for my Master which is Chief,

And Lord of Newton Court;

He keeps I say, his Shepherds Swains,

In far more braver sort.

We there have Curds, and clouted Cream,

Of Red Cows morning Milk;

And now and then fine Buttered Cakes,

As soft as any Silk.

Of Beef and reised Bacon store,

That is most Fat and Greasy;

We have likewise to feast our Chaps,

And make them glib and easie.

Thus if thou wilt my Man become,

This usage thou shalt have;

If not, adieu, go hang thy self,

And so farewel Sir Knave.

King Alfred hearing of this Glee,

The churlish Shepherd said;

Was well content to be his Man,

So they a Bargain made.

A Penny round, the Shepherd gave,

In earnest of this Match;

To keep his Sheep in Field and fold,

As Shepherds use to watch.

His Wages shall be full Ten Groats,

For Service of a Year;

Yet was it not his use, old Lad,

To hire a Man so dear.

For did the King himself (quoth he)

Unto my Cottage come;

He should not for a Twelvemonths Pay,

Receive a greater Sum.

Hereat the bonny King grew blith,

To hear the clownish Jest;

How silly sots, as custom is,

Do discant at the best.

But not to spoil the Foolish sport,

He was content good King;

To fit the Shepherd's humour right,

In every kind of thing.

A Sheep-hook then, with Patch his Dog,

And Tar-box by his side;

He with his Master, jig by jowl,

Unto old Gillian hy'd.

Into whose sight no sooner came,

Whom have you here (quoth she)

A Fellow I doubt, will cut our Throats,

So like a Knave looks he.

Not so old Dame, quoth Alfred strait,

Of me you need not fear;

My Master hir'd me for Ten Groats,

To serve you one whole Year.

So good Dame Gillian grant me leave,

Within your House to stay;

For by St. Ann, do what you can,

I will not yet away.

Her churlish usage pleas'd him still,

Put him to such a Proof,

That he at Night was almost choak'd,

Within that smoaky Roof.

But as he sat with smiling cheer,

The event of all to see;

His Dame brought forth a piece of Dow,

Which in the Fire throws she.

Where lying on the Hearth to bake,

By chance the Cake did burn;

What can'st thou not, thou Lout (quoth she)

Take Pains the same to turn:

Thou art more quick to take it out,

And eat it up half Dow,

Than thus to stay till't be enough,

And so thy Manners show.

But serve me such another Trick,

I'll thwack thee on the Snout;

Which made the patient King, good Man,

Of her to stand in Doubt:

But to be brief, to bed they went,

The good old Man and's Wife;

But never such a Lodging had

King Alfred in his Life:

For he was laid in white Sheeps Wool,

New pull'd from tanned Fells,

And o'er his Head hang'd Spiders Webbs,

As if they had been Bells.

Is this the Country Guise, thought he,

Then here I will not stay;

But hence be gone as soon as breaks

The peeping of the Day.

The cackling Hens and Geese kept roost,

And perched at his side;

Whereat the last the watchful Cock,

Made known the Morning Tide.

Then up got Alfred with his Horn,

And blew so long a Blast,

That made Gillian and her Groom,

In Bed full sore agast.

Arise, quoth she, we are undone,

This Night, we lodged have,

At unawares within our House,

A false dissembling Knave;

Rise Husband, rise, he'll cut our Throats,

He calleth for his Mates,

I'd give old Will our good Cade Lamb,

He would depart our Gates.

But still King Alfred blew his Horn

before them, more and more,

'Till that a hundred Lords and Knights,

All lighted at the Door:

Which cry'd all hail, all hail good King,

Long have we look'd your Grace;

And here you find (my merry Men all)

Your Sovereign in this place.

We shall surely be hang'd up both,

Old Gillian I much fear,

The Shepherd said, for using thus

Our good King Alfred here:

O pardon, my Liege, quoth Gillian then,

For my Husband and for me,

By these ten Bones I never thought

The same that now I see:

And by my Hook, the Shepherd said,

An Oath both good and true,

Before this time, O noble King,

I never your Highness knew:

Then pardon me and my old Wife,

That we may after say,

When first you came into our House,

It was a happy Day.

It shall be done, said Alfred streight,

And Gillian thy old Dame,

For this thy churlish using me,

Deserveth not much Blame.

For this thy Country Guise I see,

To be thus bluntish still,

And where the plainest Meaning is,

Remains the smallest Ill.

And Master, lo I tell thee now,

For thy low Manhood shown,

A Thousand Weathers I'll bestow

Upon thee for thy own.

And pasture Ground, as much as will

Suffice to feed them all,

And this thy Cottage I will change

Into a stately Hall.

As for the same, as Duty binds,

The Shepherd said, good King,

A milk white Lamb once every Year,

I'll to your Highness bring.

And Gillian my Wife likewise,

Of Wool to make you Coats,

Will give you as much at New Year's Tide,

As shall be worth ten Groats:

And in your Praise my Bagpipe shall

Sound sweetly once a Year,

How Alfred our renowned King,

Most kindly hath been here.

Thanks Shepherd, thanks, quoth he again

The next time I come hither,

My Lords with me here in this House,

Will all be merry together.

A SONG. Sung by Mrs. Bracegirdle.


CEASE, cease of Cupid to complain,

Love, Love's a Joy even while a Pain;

Oh! then think! oh! then think;

Oh! then think how great his Blisses,

Moving Glances, balmy Kisses,

Charming Raptures, matchless Sweets,

Love, Love alone, Love, Love alone,

Love, Love alone, all Joys compleats.


Sung by Mrs. Bracegirdle.


COME, come ye Nymphs,

Come ye Nymphs and ev'ry Swain,

Come ye Nymphs and ev'ry Swain,

Galatea leaves the Main,

To revive us on the Plain,

To revive us, to revive us, to revive us on the Plain;

Come, come, come, come ye Nymphs,

Come ye Nymphs and ev'ry Swain,

Come ye Nymphs and ev'ry Swain,

Galatea leaves the Main,

To revive us on the Plain,

To revive us on the Plain,

Come ye Nymphs and ev'ry Swain.

A SONG. Set by Mr. John Barret.


IAnthia the lovely, the Joy of her Swain,

By Iphis was lov'd, and lov'd Iphis again;

She liv'd in the Youth, and the Youth in the Fair,

Their Pleasure was equal, and equal their Care;

No Time, no Enjoyment their Dotage withdrew;

But the longer they liv'd, but the longer they liv'd,

Still the fonder they grew.

A Passion so happy alarm'd all the Plain,

Some envy'd the Nymph, but more envy'd the Swain;

Some swore 'twould be pity their Loves to invade,

That the Lovers alone for each other was made:

But all, all consented, that none ever knew,

A Nymph yet so kind, a Nymph yet so kind,

Or a Shepherd so true.

Love saw 'em with Pleasure, and vow'd to take care

Of the faithful, the tender, the innocent Pair;

What either did want, he bid either to move,

But they wanted nothing, but ever to love:

Said, 'twas all that to bless him his God-head cou'd do,

That they still might be kind, that they still might be kind,

And they still might be true.

* * *



BRing out your Coney-Skins

Bring out your Coney-Skins Maids to me,

And hold them fair that I may see,

Grey, Black and Blue, for the smaller Skins

I'll give you Bracelets, Laces, Pins,

And for your whole Coney

Here's ready Money,

Come gentle Joan, do thou begin

With thy black Coney, thy black Coney-Skin,

And Mary and Joan will follow,

With their Silver-hair'd Skins and yellow;

The White Coney-Skin I will not lay by,

For tho' it be faint, it is fair to the Eye:

The Grey it is worn, but yet for my Money,

Give me the bonny, bonny black Coney;

Come away fair Maids, your Skins will decay,

Come and take Money Maids, put your Wares away:

Ha'ye any Coney-Skins, ha'ye any Coney-Skins,

Ha'ye any Coney-Skins here to sell?

* * *


The Words by Mr. Clossold, Set by Mr.

John Wilford.


NAY pish, nay pish, nay pish Sir, what ails you;

Lord! What is't you do?

I ne'er met with one so uncivil as you;

You may think as you please, but if Evil it be,

I wou'd have you to know, you're mistaken in me.

You Men now so rude, and so boistrous are grown,

A Woman can't trust her self with you alone:

I cannot but wonder what 'tis that shou'd move ye;

If you do so again, I swear, I swear, I swear, I swear,

I swear I won't love ye.

A SONG. Set by Mr. Motley.


DRAW Cupid draw, and make fair Sylvia know;

The mighty Pain her suff'ring Swain does for her undergo;

Convey this Dart into her Heart, and when she's set on Fire,

Do thou return and let her burn, like me in chast desire;

That by Experience she, may learn to pity me,

Whene'er her Eyes do tyrannize o'er my Captivity:

But when in Love we jointly move, and tenderly imbrace,

Like Angels shine, and sweetly join to one another's Face.

* * *

A SONG; The Words by a Person of a Quality. Set to Musick by Mr. Robert Cary.


SOme brag of their Chloris, and some of their Phillis,

Some cry up their C?lia, and bright Amaryllis:

Thus Poets and Lovers their Mistresses dub,

And Goddesses fram'd from the Wash-bowl and Tub;

But away with these Fictions, and Counterfeit Folly:

There's a thousand more Charms in the Name of my Dolly.

I cannot describe you her Beauty and Wit,

Like Manna to each she's a relishing Bit;

She alone by Enjoyment, the more does prevail,

And still with fresh Pleasures does hoist up your Sail:

Nay, had you a Surfeit, but took of all others,

One Look from my Dolly your Stomach recovers.

* * *

The Mountebank Song. Sung by Dr. Leverigo, and his merry Andrew Pinkanello, in Farewel to Folly. Set by Mr. Leveridge.


HEre are People and Sports

of all sizes and sorts,

Coach'd Damsel with Squire,

and Mob in the Mire,

Tarpaulins, Trugmallions,

Lords, Ladys, Sows,

Babies, and Loobys in Scores.

Some howling, some Bawling,

some Leering, some Fleering,

some Loving, some Shoving,

with Legions of Furbelow'd Whores.

To the Tavern, some go,

and some to a Show,

see Poppets for Moppets,

Jack-puddings, for Cuddens,

Rope Dancing, Mares Prancing,

Boats flying, Quacks lying,

Pick-pockets, pick Plackets,

Beasts, Butchers, and Beaus.

Fops prat'ling, Dies rat'ling,

Rooks shaming, Puts Daming,

Whores Painted, Mask's tainted,

in Tallymans Furbelow'd Cloaths.

The Mobs Joys would you know

to yon Musick-house go,

see Tailors, and Saylors,

Whores Oily in Doily,

hear Musick, makes you sick:

Cows Skipping, Clowns tripping,

some Joaking, some Smoaking, like Spiggit and Tap;

short Measure, strange Pleasure

thus Billing, and Swilling,

some yearly, get fairly,

for Fairings Pig, Pork, and a Clap.

The Mountebank Song. Set and Sung by Mr. Leveridge, in a New Play call'd, Farewel to Folly.


SEE, Sirs, see here! a Doctor rare, who travels much at home!

Here take my Bills, take my Bills,

I cure all Ills, past, present, and to come;

the Cramp, the Stitch, the Squirt, the Itch,

the Gout, the Stone, the Pox,

the Mulligrubs, the Bonny Scrubs,

and all, all, all, all, all, Pandora's Box;

Thousands I've Dissected, Thousands new erected,

and such Cures effected, as none e'er can tell.

Let the Palsie shake ye, let the Chollick rack ye,

let the Crinkums break ye, let the Murrain take ye;

Take this, take this and you are well.

Thousands, &c.

Come Wits so keen, devour'd with Spleen;

come Beaus who sprain'd your Backs,

Great-belly'd Maids, old founder'd Jades,

and Pepper'd Vizard Cracks.

I soon remove the pains of Love,

and cure the Love-sick Maid;

the Hot, the Cold, the Young,

the Old, the Living and the Dead.

I clear the Lass with Wainscot Face,

and from Pim-ginets free,

Plump Ladies Red, like Saracen's-head,

with toaping Rattafe.

This with a Jirk, will do your work,

and scour you o're and o're,

Read, Judge and Try, and if you die,

never believe me more,

never, never, never, never, never believe me more.

* * *

A Song in the Mock Marriage. Sung by Mrs. Knight. Set by Mr. Henry Purcell.


OH! how you protest and solemnly swear,

Look humble, and fawn like an Ass;

I'm pleas'd, I must own, when ever I see

A Lover that's brought to this pass.

Keep, keep further off, you're naughty I fear,

I vow I will never, will never, will never yield to't;

You ask me in vain; for never I swear,

I never, no never, I never, no never,

I never, no never will do't.

For when the Deed's done, how quickly you go,

No more of the Lover remains,

In hast you depart, whate'er we can do,

And stubbornly throw off your Chains:

Desist then in time, let's hear on't no more,

I vow I will never yield to't;

You promise in vain, in vain you adore,

For I will never, no never will do't.

Jockey's Lamentation.


JOckey met with Jenny fair

Betwixt the dawning and the Day,

And Jockey now is full of Care,

For Jenny stole his Heart away:

Altho' she promis'd to be true,

Yet she, alas, has prov'd unkind,

That which do make poor Jenny rue,

For Jenny's fickle as the Wind:

And, 'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,

'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,

'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,

The Wind has blown my Plad away.

Jockey was a bonny Lad,

As e'er was born in Scotland fair;

But now poor Jockey is run mad,

For Jenny causes his Despair;

Jockey was a Piper's Son,

And fell in Love while he was young:

But all the Tunes that he could play,

Was, o'er the Hills, and far away,

And, 'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,

'Tis o'er the Hills and far away,

'Tis o'er the Hills and far away,

The Wind has blown my Plad away.

When first I saw my Jenny's Face,

She did appear with sike a Grace,

With muckle Joy my Heart was fill'd;

But now alas with Sorrow kill'd.

Oh! was she but as true as fair,

'Twou'd put an end to my Despair;

But ah, alass! this is unkind,

Which sore does terrify my Mind;

'Twas o'er the Hills, and far away,

'Twas o'er the Hills, and far away,

'Twas o'er the Hills, and far away,

That Jenny stole my Heart away.

Did she but feel the dismal Woe

That for her Sake I undergo,

She surely then would grant Relief,

And put an end to all my Grief:

But oh, she is as false as fair,

Which causes all my sad Despair;

She triumphs in a proud Disdain,

And takes Delight to see my Pain;

'Tis o'er the Hills, &c.

Hard was my Hap to fall in Love,

With one that does so faithless prove;

Hard was my fate to court the Maid,

That has my constant Heart betray'd:

A thousand times to me she swore,

She would be true for evermore:

But oh! alas, with Grief I say,

She's stole my Heart, and ran away;

'Twas o'er the Hills, &c.

Good gentle Cupid take my part,

And pierce this false one to the Heart,

That she may once but feel the Woe,

As I for her do undergo;

Oh! make her feel this raging Pain,

That for her Love I do sustain;

She sure would then more gentle be,

And soon repent her Cruelty;

'Tis o'er the Hills, &c.

I now must wander for her sake,

Since that she will no Pity take,

Into the Woods and shady Grove,

And bid adieu to my false Love:

Since she is false whom I adore,

I ne'er will trust a Woman more,

From all their Charms I'll fly away,

And on my Pipe will sweetly play;

'Tis o'er the Hills, &c.

There by my self I'll sing and say,

'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,

That my poor Heart is gone astray,

Which makes me grieve both Night and Day;

Farewel, farewel, thou cruel she,

I fear that I shall die for thee:

But if I live, this Vow I'll make,

To love no other for your sake.

'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,

'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,

'Tis o'er the Hills, and far away,

The Wind has blown my Plad away.

The Recruiting Officer: Or, The Merry Volunteers: Being an Excellent New Copy of Verses upon raising Recruits.

To the foregoing Tune.

HARK! now the Drums beat up again,

For all true Soldiers Gentlemen,

Then let us list, and march I say,

Over the Hills and far away;

Over the Hills and o'er the Main,

To Flanders, Portugal and Spain,

Queen Ann commands, and we'll obey,

Over the Hills and far away.

All Gentlemen that have a Mind,

To serve the Queen that's good and kind;

Come list and enter into Pay,

Then o'er the Hills and far away;

Over the Hills, &c.

Here's Forty Shillings on the Drum,

For those that Volunteers do come,

With Shirts, and Cloaths, and present Pay,

When o'er the Hills and far away;

Over the Hills, &c.

Hear that brave Boys, and let us go,

Or else we shall be prest you know;

Then list and enter into Pay,

And o'er the Hills and far away,

Over the Hills, &c.

The Constables they search about,

To find such brisk young Fellows out;

Then let's be Volunteers I say,

Over the Hills and far away;

Over the Hills, &c.

Since now the French so low are brought,

And Wealth and Honour's to be got,

Who then behind wou'd sneaking stay?

When o'er the Hills and far away;

Over the Hills, &c.

No more from sound of Drum retreat,

While Marlborough, and Gallaway beat,

The French and Spaniards every Day,

When over the Hills and far away;

Over the Hills, &c.

He that is forc'd to go and fight,

Will never get true Honour by't,

While Volunteers shall win the Day,

When o'er the Hills and far away;

Over the Hills, &c.

What tho' our Friends our Absence mourn,

We all with Honour shall return;

And then we'll sing both Night and Day,

Over the Hills and far away;

Over the Hills, &c.

The Prentice Tom he may refuse,

To wipe his angry Master's Shoes;

For then he's free to sing and play,

Over the Hills and far away;

Over the Hills, &c.

Over Rivers, Bogs, and Springs,

We all shall live as great as Kings,

And Plunder get both Night and Day,

When over the Hills and far away,

Over the Hills, &c.

We then shall lead more happy Lives,

By getting rid of Brats and Wives,

That Scold on both Night and Day,

When o'er the Hills and far away:

Over the Hills, &c.

Come on then Boys and you shall see,

We every one shall Captains be,

To Whore and rant as well as they,

When o'er the Hills and far away:

Over the Hills, &c.

For if we go 'tis one to Ten,

But we return all Gentlemen,

All Gentlemen as well as they,

When o'er the Hills and far away:

Over the Hills, &c.

* * *

A Scotch Song. Set by Mr. John Barrett.


AH! foolish Lass, what mun I do?

My Modesty I well may rue,

Which of my Joy bereft me;

For full of Love he came,

But out of silly shame,

With pish and phoo I play'd,

To muckle the coy Maid,

And the raw young Loon has left me.

Wou'd Jockey knew how muckle I lue,

Did I less Art, or did he shew,

More Nature, how bleast I'd be;

I'd not have reason to complain,

That I lue'd now in vain,

Gen he more a Man was,

I'd be less a coy Lass,

Had the raw young Loon weel try'd me.

* * *

A Song in the Comedy call'd Justice Buisy, or the Gentleman Quack: Set by Mr. John Eccles, Sung by Mrs. Bracegirdle.


NO, no ev'ry Morning my Beauties renew,

Where-ever I go, I have Lovers enough;

I Dress and I Dance, and I Laugh and I Sing,

Am lovely and lively, and gay as the Spring:

I Visit, I Game, and I cast away Care,

Mind Lovers no more, than the Birds of the Air,

Mind Lovers no more, than the Birds of the Air.

* * *

A Song. Set by Mr. WILLIS.


NOW my Freedom's regain'd, and by Bacchus I swear,

All whining dull whimsys of Love I'll cashire:

The Charm's more engaging in Bumpers of Wine,

Then let Chloe be Damn'd, but let this be Divine:

Whilst Youth warms thy Veins, Boy embrace thy full Glasses,

Damn Cupid and all his poor Proselyte Asses;

Let this be thy rule Tom, to square out thy Life,

And when Old in a Friend, thou'lt live free from all Strife,

Only envied by him that is plagu'd with a Wife.

A Scotch Song, the Words by Mr. Peter

Noble, Set by Mr. John Wilford.


BONNY Scottish Lads that keens me weel,

Lith ye what, ye what good Luck Ise fun;

Moggey is mine own in spight o'th' De'el,

I alone her Heart has won:

Near St. Andrew's Kirk in London Town,

There Ise, Ise met my Dearest Joy;

Shinening in her Silken Hued and Gown,

But ne'er ack, ne'er ack she prov'd not Coy.

Then after many Compliments,

Streight we gang'd into the Kirk;

There full weel she tuck the documents,

And flang me many pleasing Smirk:

Weel I weat that I have gear enough,

She's have a Yode to ride ont;

She's neither drive the Swine, nor the Plough,

Whatever does betide ont.

* * *

A New Song in the Play call'd, a Duke

and no Duke. Sung by Mrs. Cibber.


DAMON if you will believe me,

'Tis not sighing o'er the Plain;

Songs nor Sonnets can't relieve ye,

Faint Attempts in Love are vain:

Urge but home the fair Occasion,

And be Master of the Field;

To a powerful kind Invasion,

'Twere a Madness not to yield.

Tho' she vow's she'll ne'er permit ye,

Says you're rude, and much to blame;

And with Tears implores your pity,

Be not merciful for shame:

When the first assault is over,

Chloris time enough will find;

This so fierce and Cruel Lover,

Much more gentle, not so kind.

A Song. The Words made to a Tune of

the late Mr. Henry Purcell's.


DRUNK I was last Night that's poss,

My Wife began to Scold;

Say what I cou'd for my Heart's Blood,

Her Clack she wou'd not hold:

Thus her Chat she did begin,

Is this your time of coming in;

The Clock strikes One, you'll be undone,

If thus you lead your Life:

My Dear said I, I can't deny,

But what you say is true;

I do intend, my Life to mend,

Pray lends the Pot to Spew.

Fye, you Sot, I ne'er can bear,

To rise thus e'ery Night;

Tho' like a Beast you never care,

What consequence comes by't:

The Child and I may starve for you,

We neither can have half our due;

With grief I find, you're so unkind,

In time you'll break my Heart:

At that I smil'd, and said dear Child,

I believe your in the wrong;

But if't shou'd be you're destiny,

I'll sing a merry Song.

* * *

The Gelding the Devil. Set by Mr. Tho.



I Met with the Devil in the shape of a Ram,

Then over and over the Sow-gelder came;

I rose and halter'd him fast by the Horns,

And pick'd out his Stones, as you would pick out Corns;

Maa, quoth the Devil, with that out he slunk,

And left us a Carkass of Mutton that stunk.

I chanc'd to ride forth a Mile and a half,

Where I heard he did live in disguise of a Calf;

I bound him and Gelt him e'er he did any evil,

For he was at the best but a young sucking Devil:

Maa, yet he cries, and forth he did steal,

And this was sold after for excellent Veal.

Some half a Year after in the Form of a Pig,

I met with the Rogue, and he look'd very big;

I caught at his Leg, laid him down on a Log,

E'er a Man could Fart twice, I made him a Hog:

Huh, huh quoth the Devil, and gave such a Jerk,

That a Jew was Converted and eat of that Pork.

In Woman's attire I met him most fine,

At first sight I thought him some Angel divine;

But viewing his crab Face I fell to my Trade,

I made him forswear ever acting a Maid:

Meaw, quoth the Devil, and so ran away,

Hid himself in a Fryer's old Weeds as they say.

I walked along and it was my good chance,

To meet with a Black-coat that was in a Trance;

I speedily grip'd him and whip'd off his Cods,

'Twixt his Head and his Breech, I left little odds:

O, quoth the Devil, and so away ran,

Thou oft will be curst by many a Woman.

* * *

A Song.


WHEN Jemmy first began to love,

He was the finest Swain;

That ever yet a Flock had drove,

Or Danc'd upon the Plain:

'Twas then that I, woe's me poor heart,

My Freedom threw away;

And finding sweets in every part,

I could not say him nay.

For ever when he spake of Love,

He wou'd his Eyes decline;

Each Sigh he gave a Heart wou'd move,

Good faith, and why not mine:

He'd press my Hand, and Kiss it oft,

His silence spoke his Flame;

And whilst he treated me thus soft,

I wish'd him more to blame.

Sometimes to feed my Flock with his,

Jemmy wou'd me invite;

Where he the finest Songs would Sing,

Me only to Delight:

Then all his Graces he display'd,

Which were enough I trow;

To conquer any Princely Maid,

So did he me I trow.

But now for Jemmy I must Mourn,

He to the Wars must go;

His Sheephook to a Sword must turn,

Alack what shall I do?

His Bagpipes into Warlike sounds,

Must now converted be;

His Garlands into fearful Wounds,

Oh! what becomes of me?

A Song; to the Tune of Woobourn Fair.

Vol. 4. Pag. 330.

JILTING is in such a Fashion,

And such a Fame,

Runs o'er the Nation,

There's never a Dame

Of highest Rank, or of Fame,

Sir, but will stoop to your Caresses,

If you do but put home your Addresses:

It's for that she Paints, and she Patches,

All she hopes to secure is her Name, Sir.

But when you find the Love fit comes upon her,

Never trust much to her Honour;

Tho' she may very high stand on't,

Yet when her love is Ascendant,

Her Vertue's quite out of Doors

High Breeding, rank Feeding,

With lazy Lives leading,

In Ease and soft Pleasures,

And taking loose Measures,

With Play-house Diversions,

And Midnight Excursions,

With Balls Masquerading,

And Nights Serenading,

Debauch the Sex into Whores, Sir.


Set by Mr. Pack.


FAREWEL ungrateful Traytor,

Farewel my Perjur'd Swain:

Let never injur'd Creature,

Believe a Man again:

The pleasure of possessing,

Surpasses all expressing;

But Joys too short a Blessing,

And love too long a Pain:

But Joys too short a Blessing,

And Love too long a Pain.

'Tis easie to deceive us,

In pity of your Pain;

But when we Love, you leave us,

To rail at you in vain:

Before we have descry'd it,

There is no Bliss beside it;

But she that once has try'd it,

Will never Love again.

The Passion you pretended,

Was only to obtain;

But when the Charm is ended,

The Charmer you disdain:

Your Love by ours we measure,

'Till we have lost our Treasure;

But dying is a Pleasure,

When living is a Pain.

* * *



YOU I Love by all that's true,

More than all things here below;

with a Passion far more great,

Than e'er Creature loved yet:

And yet still you cry forbear,

Love no more, or Love not here.

Bid the Miser leave his Ore,

Bid the Wretched sigh no more;

Bid the Old be young again,

Bid the Nun not think of Man:

Sylvia thus when you can do,

Bid me then not think on you.

Love's not a thing of Choice, but Fate,

What makes me Love, that makes you Hate:

Sylvia you do what you will,

Ease or Cure, Torment or Kill:

Be Kind or Cruel, False or True,

Love I must, and none but you.

* * *


Note: You must Sing 8 lines to the first Strain.


LET's be merry blith and jolly,

Stupid Dulness is a Folly;

'Tis the Spring that doth invite us,

Hark, the chirping Birds delight us:

Let us Dance and raise our Voices,

Every Creature now rejoyces;

Airy Blasts and springing Flowers,

Verdant Coverings, pleasant Showers:

Each plays his part to compleat this our Joy,

And can we be so dull as to deny.

Here's no foolish surly Lover,

That his Passions will discover;

No conceited fopish Creature,

That is proud of Cloaths or Feature:

All things here serene and free are,

They're not Wise, are not as we are;

Who acknowledge Heavens Blessings,

In our innocent Caressings:

Then let us Sing, let us Dance, let us Play,

'Tis the Time is allow'd, 'tis the Month of May.

* * *

A New Song, the Words by Mr. J.C.

Set to Musick by Dr. Prettle.


NO Phillis, tho' you've all the Charms,

Ambitious Woman can desire;

All Beauty, Wit, and Youth that warms,

Or sets our foolish Hearts on fire:

Yet you may practice all your Arts,

In vain to make a Slave of me;

You ne'er shall re-engage my Heart,

Revolted from your Tyranny:

You ne'er shall re-engage my Heart,

Revolted from your Tyranny.

When first I saw those dang'rous Eyes,

They did my Liberty betray;

But when I knew your Cruelties,

I snatch'd my simple Heart away:

Now I defy your Smiles to win,

My resolute Heart, no pow'r th'ave got;

Tho' once I suck'd their Poyson in,

Your Rigour prov'd an Antidote.

The Epilogue to the Island Princes, Set by Mr. Clark, Sung by Mrs. Lindsey, and the Boy.


NOW to you ye dry Wooers,

Old Beaus, and no doers,

So doughty, so gouty,

So useless and toothless,

Your blindless, cold kindness,

Has nothing of Man;

Still doating, or gloating,

Still stumbling, or fumbling,

Still hawking, still baulking,

You flash in the Pan:

Unfit like old Brooms,

For sweeping our Rooms,

You're sunk and you're shrunk,

Then repent and look to't;

In vain you're so upish, in vain you're so upish.

You're down ev'ry foot.

* * *

A Scotch Song, Set by Mr. R. Brown.


JOCKEY loves his Moggy dearly,

He gang'd with her to Perth Fair;

There we Sung and Pip'd together,

And when done, then down I'd lay her:

I so pull'd her, and so lull'd her,

Both o'erwhelm'd with muckle Joy;

Mog. kiss'd Jockey, Jockey Moggy,

From long Night to break of Day.

I told Mog. 'twas muckle pleasing,

Moggey cry'd she'd do again such;

I reply'd I'd glad gang with thee,

But 'twould wast my muckle Coyn much:

She lamented, I relented,

Both wish'd Bodies might increase;

Then we'd gang next Year together,

And my Pipe shall never cease.

* * *

A Song, in the Lucky Younger Brother, or, the Beau Defeated; Set by Mr. John Eccles, and Sung by Mr. Bowman.


DELIA tir'd Strephon with her Flame,

While languishing, while languishing she view'd him;

The well dress'd Youth despis'd the Dame,

But still, still; but still the old Fool pursu'd him:

Some pity on a Wretch bestow,

That lyes at your Devotion;

Perhaps near fifty Years ago,

Perhaps near fifty Years ago,

I might have lik'd the Motion.

If you, proud Youth, my Flame despise,

I'll hang me in my Garters;

Why then make hast to win the Prize,

Among loves foolish Martyrs:

Can you see Delia brought so low,

And make her no Requitals?

Delia may to the Devil go, Delia may to the Devil,

Devil go, to the Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil go for Strephon;

Stop my Vitals, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop my Vitals.

* * *

A Song, Set by Mr. John Weldon.


SWAIN thy hopeless Passion smother,

Perjur'd C?lia loves another;

In his Arms I saw her lying,

Panting, Kissing, Trembling, Dying:

There the Fair deceiver swore,

As once she did to you before.

Oh! said you, when She deceives me,

When that Constant Creatures leave me;

Isis Waters back shall fly,

And leave their Ouzy Channels dry:

Turn your Waters, leave your Shore,

For perjur'd C?lia loves no more.

* * *

A Song in the Comedy call'd the Biter, Set by Mr. John Eccles, and Sung by Mr. Cook.


CHLOE blush'd and frown'd and swore,

And push'd me rudely from her;

I call'd her Faithless, Jilting Whore,

To talk to me of Honour:

But when I rose and wou'd be gone,

She cry'd nay, whither go ye?

Young Damon saw, now we're alone,

Do, do, do what you will, do what you will with Chloe:

Do what you will, what you will, what you will with Chloe,

Do what you will, what you will, what you will with Chloe.

A Song in Rinaldo and Armida: Set by

Mr. John Eccles. Sung by Mr. Gouge.


THE Jolly, Jolly Breeze,

That comes whistling through the Trees;

From all the blissful Regions brings,

Perfumes upon its spicy Wings:

With its wanton motion curling,

Curling, curling, curling the crystal Rills,

Which down, down, down, down the Hills,

Run, run, run, run, run o'er Golden gravel purling.

A Song on the Punch Bowl. To the

foregoing Tune.

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.


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.

* * *

A Song Set by Mr. John Barrett, and

Sung by Mrs. Lindsey.


C?LIA hence with Affectation,

Hence with all this careless Air;

Hypocrisy is out of Fashion,

With the Witty and the Fair:

Nature all thy Arts discloses,

While the Pleasures she supplies;

Paint thy glowing Cheeks with Roses,

And inflame thy sparkling Eyes.

Foolish C?lia not to know,

Love thy Int'rest and thy Duty;

Thou to love alone dost owe,

All thy Joy, and all thy Beauty:

Mark the tuneful Feather'd kind,

At the coming of the Spring;

All in happy Pairs are joyn'd,

And because they love they Sing.

A Song, Set by Mr. CLARK.


HOW often have I curs'd that sable Deceit,

For making me wish and admire;

And rifle poor Ovid to learn to intreat,

When Reason might check my desire:

For sagely of late it has been disclos'd,

There's nothing, nothing conceal'd uncommon;

No Miracles under a Mask repos'd,

When knowing Cynthia's a Woman.

Tho' Beauty's great Charms our Sences delude,

'Tis the Centre attracts our Needle;

And Love's a Jest when thought to intrude,

The design of it to unriddle:

A Virgin may show strange coyness in Love,

And tell you Chimera's of Honour;

But give her her Wish, the Man she approves,

No Labour he'll have to win her.


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