Chapter 4

When first _Mardyke_ was made a Prey, 'Twas Courage that carry'd the Fort away, Then do not lose your Valours Prize, By gazing on your Mistresses Eyes; But put off your Petticoat-parley, Potting and sotting, and laughing and quaffing Canary, Will make a good Soldier miscarry: And never Travel for true Renown: Then turn to your Marshal Mistress, Fair _Minerva_ the Soldier's Sister is; Rallying and sallying, with gashing and slashing of Wounds Sir, With turning and burning of Towns, Sir, Is a high step to a great Man's Throne.

Let bold _Bellona's_ Brewer frown, And his Tunn shall overflow the Town; And give the Cobler Sword and Fate: And a Tinker may trapan the State; Such Fortunate Foes as these be, Turn'd the Crown to a Cross at _Naseby_: Father and Mother, Sister and Brother confounded, And many a good Family wounded; By a terrible turn of Fate, He that can kill a Man, thunder and plunder the Town, Sir, And pull his Enemies down, Sir, In time may be an Officer great.

It is the Sword does order all, Makes Peasants rise, and Princes fall; All Sylogisms in vain are spilt, No Logick like a Basket-hilt: It handles 'em joint by joint Sir, Quilling and drilling, and spilling, and Killing profoundly, Until the Disputers on Ground lie, And have never a word to say; Unless it be Quarter, Quarter, Truth is confuted by a Carter, By stripping and nipping, and ripping and quipping Evasions, Doth Conquer a Power of Perswasions, _Aristotle_ hath lost the Day.

The Musket bears so great a force, To Learning it has no Remorse; The Priest, the Layman, the Lord, Find no distinction from the Sword; Tan tarra, Tan tarra the Trumpet, Now the Walls begin to crack, The Councellors struck dumb too, By the Parchment upon the Drum too; Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub an Alarum, Each Corporal now can out-dare 'em, Learned _Littleton_ goes to rack.

Then since the Sword so bright doth shine, We'll leave our Wenches and our Wine, And follow _Mars_ where-e'er he runs, And turn our Pots and Pipes to Guns. The Bottles shall be Grenadoes, We'll bounce about the Bravado's By huffing and puffing, and snuffing and cuffing the _French_ Boys, Whose Brows have been dy'd in a Trench Boys; Well got Fame is a Warriour's Wife, The Drawer shall be the Drummer, We'll be Colonels all next Summer By hiking and tilting, and pointing and jointing like brave Boys, We shall have Gold or a Grave, Boys, And there's an end of a Soldier's Life.

_The_ MISSES _Complaint._

_Tune_, Packington's Pound.

[Music]

How now Sister _Betteris_, why look you so sad? _Gillian._ The times are so hard and our trading so bad, That we in our Function no Money can gain, Our Pride and our Bravery for to maintain.

_Bett._ True Sister, _Gillian_, I know it full well, But what will you say if such News I do tell? And how't will rejoyce you, I'll make it out plain, Will make our Trade quick, and more Money will gain.

There's none of the pitiful Tribe we'll be for, And Six-penny Customers we will abhor; For all those that will our Dominions invade, Must pay for their sauce, we must live by our Trade.

_Gil._ Good Sister if you can make this but appear, My Spirit and Senses you greatly will chear, But a Famine of Flesh will bring all things to pass, Or else we are as bad still as ever we was.

_Bett._ Lately a Counsel of Bauds there did meet, In _Cock_ and _Pye_ Alley, near _Do-little_ Street: And who was the Counsel, and what was there done; I'll make it out to you as clear as the Sun.

From _Ratcliffe-highway_, and from _Nightingale-lane_, Their Deputies come with a very fine Train: Unto these two Couple come long sided _Sue_, Is as good as e'er twang'd, if you give her her due.

Then _Tower-Ditch_ and _Hatton-Wall_ sent in their Prayers, And drest as compleatly as Horses to Fairs; With them Jumping _Jenny_ appear'd, as 'tis said, Who ne'er in her Life of a Man was afraid.

The two Metropolitans came from the Park, As arch at the Game, as e'er plaid in the Dark; Then _Lutener's_-lane a gay Couple did bring, Two better, I think, was ne'er stretch'd in hemp-string.

There was many others from Places remote, The which were too tedious for me here to note; And what was their Business I here will declare, How to keep our Trade in Repute they take care.

And first for those Ladies that walk in the Night, Their Aprons and Handkerchiefs they should be white, And that they do walk more in Town than in Fields, For that is the Place most Variety yields.

And those that are over-much worn by their Trade, Shall go in a Vessel, their Passage being paid; The Venture of Cuckolds, 'tis called by Name, And this is the way for to keep up our Fame.

And this is the Ship which the Cuckolds have brought, It lies at their Haven, and is to be frought: And thither Whores rampant, that please may repair, With Master and Captain to truck for their Ware.

And for a Supply that our trade may increase, For wanton Commodity it will grow less; We'll visit the Carriers, and take them up there, And then for their Tutering we will take care.

In this we shall ease all the Countries to do't, And do our selves Pleasure and Profit to boot; For one that is crack'd in the Country before, In _London_ will make a spick and span Whore.

There's many more Precepts which they did advise, But these which I'll give you here shall suffice: And when you have heard them, I think you will say, We ne'er were more likely to thrive in our way.

_Some Orders agreed upon at a General Consultation of the_ Sisterhood _of_ Nightingale-lane, Ratcliff-high-way, Tower-Ditch, Rose-mary-lane, Hatton-Wall, Saffron-hill, Wetstone's-Park, Lutener's-lane, _and other Places adjacent, for the general Encouragement and Advancement of their Occupation._

I.

_That no_ Night-walker _presume to go without a White Apron and Handkerchief, the better to be seen._

II.

_To keep due Time and Hours, for fear of the Constable and his Watch._

III.

_That those which are over-worn, cast off and cashier'd, do repair to the Ship called_ (the Cuckolds Venture) _now riding at_ Cuckolds Haven, _thence to be transported over-Sea, to have their Breeches repaired._

IV.

_That a due care be taken to visit the Carriers for crack'd Maidenheads, for the use and increase of our Occupation._

V.

_That all honest Women belonging to either_ Wittals _or_ Cuckolds, _be admitted to the principal Places in this Ship._

VI.

_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._