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.
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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._
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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._
[Music]
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_.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
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.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
Ah! _Caelia_ 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.
[Music]
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.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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._
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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._
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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 _Caesar_ 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.
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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.
[Music]
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.
_A_ SONG.
[Music]
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._
[Music]
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._