Chapter VI (1)

_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.

[Music]

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.

[Music]

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.

[Music]

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.

[Music]

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.

[Music]

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 _Phoebus_ 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 Nightingale._

[Music]

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.

[Music]

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._

[Music]

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 _Caesar_ 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._

[Music]

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.

[Music]

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.

[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_.