Chapter 6

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._

When the Bow, Bill, Zword and Dagger, Were us'd all in vighting; Ch've heard my Father swear and swagger, That it was but a Flea-biting: _But these Guns_, &c.

Ise would vight with the best of our Parish, And play at Whisters with _Mary_; Cou'd thump the Vootball, yerk the Morrie, And box at Visticuffs with any: _But these Guns_, &c.

Varewel _Dick_, _Tom_, _Ralph_ and _Hugh_, My Maypoles make all heretofore; Varewel _Doll_, _Kate_, _Zis_ and _Zue_, For I shall never zee you more: _For these Guns are such pestilent things, To pat a Pellet in ones Brow; Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay, Ch'ill kill a Man he knows not how._

_A_ SONG _in Praise of Punch._

[Music]

Come fill up the Bowl with the Liquor that fine is, And much more Divine is, Than now a-days Wine is, with all their Art, None here can controul: The Vintner despising, tho' Brandy be rising, 'Tis Punch that must chear the Heart: The Lovers complaining, 'twill cure in a trice, And _Caelia_ disdaining, shall cease to be nice, _Come fill up the Bowl_, &c.

Thus soon you'll discover, the cheat of each Lover, When free from all Care you'll quickly find, As Nature intended 'em willing and kind: _Come fill up the Bowl_, &c.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Bonny _Peggy Ramsey_ that any Man may see, And bonny was her Face, with a fair freckel'd Eye, Neat is her Body made, and she hath good Skill, And square is her Wethergig made like a Mill: _With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_ _Bonny_ Peggy Ramsey _she gives weel her Mill._

_Peggy_ to the Mill is gone to grind a Bowl of Mault, The Mill it wanted Water, and was not that a fault; Up she pull'd her Petticoats and piss'd into the Dam, For six Days and seven Nights she made the Mill to gang; _With a hey_, &c.

Some call her _Peggy_, and some call her _Jean_, But some calls her Midsummer, but they all are mista'en; For _Peggy_ is a bonny Lass, and grinds well her Mill, For she will be Occupied when others they lay still: _With a hey_, &c.

_Peg_, thee and Ise grin a poke, and we to War will leanes, Ise lay thee flat upon thy Back and then lay to the steanes; Ise make hopper titter totter, haud the Mouth as still, When twa sit, and eane stand, merrily grind the Mill: _With a hey_, &c.

Up goes the Clap, and in goes the Corn, Betwixt twa rough steans _Peggy_ not to learn; With a Dam full of Water that she holdeth still, To pour upon the Clap for burning of the Mill: _With a hey_, &c.

Up she pull'd the Dam sure and let the Water in, The Wheel went about, and the Mill began to grind: The spindle it was hardy, and the steanes were they well pickt, And the Meal fell in the Mill Trough, and ye may all come lick: _With a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_ _Bonny_ Peggy Ramsey _she gives weel her Mill._

_A_ SONG.

_Writ by the Famous Mr._ NAT. LEE.

_Philander_ and _Sylvia_, a gentle soft Pair, Whose business was loving, and kissing their Care; In a sweet smelling Grove went smiling along, 'Till the Youth gave a vent to his Heart with his Tongue: Ah _Sylvia_! said he, (and sigh'd when he spoke) Your cruel resolves will you never revoke? No never, she said, how never, he cry'd, 'Tis the Damn'd that shall only that Sentence abide.

She turn'd her about to look all around, Then blush'd, and her pretty Eyes cast on the Ground; She kiss'd his warm Cheeks, then play'd with his Neck, And urg'd that his Reason his Passion would check: Ah _Philander_! she said, 'tis a dangerous Bliss, Ah! never ask more and I'll give thee a Kiss; How never? he cry'd, then shiver'd all o'er, No never, she said, then tripp'd to a Bower.

She stopp'd at the Wicket, he cry'd let me in, She answer'd, I wou'd if it were not a sin; Heav'n sees, and the Gods will chastise the poor Head Of _Philander_ for this; straight Trembling he said, Heav'n sees, I confess, but no Tell-tales are there, She kiss'd him and cry'd, you're an Atheist my Dear; And shou'd you prove false I should never endure: How never? he cry'd, and straight down he threw her.

Her delicate Body he clasp'd in his Arms, He kiss'd her, he press'd her, heap'd charms upon charms; He cry'd shall I now? no never, she said, Your Will you shall never enjoy till I'm dead: Then as if she were dead, she slept and lay still, Yet even in Death bequeath'd him a smile: Which embolden'd the Youth his Charms to apply, Which he bore still about him to cure those that die.

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

Your Hay it is mow'd, and your Corn is reap'd, Your Barns will be full, and your Hovels heap'd; Come, my Boys come, Come, my Boys come, And merrily roar our Harvest home: Harvest home, Harvest home, And merrily roar our Harvest home. _Come, my Boys come_, &c.

We ha' cheated the Parson, we'll cheat him agen, For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten: One in Ten, One in Ten, For why should a Blockhead ha' One in Ten, _One in Ten_, &c.

For prating too long, like a Book learnt Sot, 'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot: Burnt to Pot, Burnt to Pot, 'Till Pudding and Dumpling are burnt to Pot. _Burnt to Pot_, &c.

We'll toss off our Ale till we cannot stand, And hey for the Honour of old _England_; Old _England_, Old _England_, And hey for the Honour of old _England_, _Old_ England, _&c._

_A_ SONG.

[Music]

I prithee send me back my Heart, Since I cannot have thine: For if from yours you will not part, Why then should you have mine.

Yet now I think on't, let it be, To send it me is vain; Thou hast a Thief in either Eye, Will steal it back again.

Why should two Hearts in one Breast be, And yet not be together; Or Love, where is thy Sympathy, If thou our Hearts do sever?

But Love is such a Mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I am best resolv'd, Then I am most in Doubt.

Then farewel Care, then farewel Woe, I will no longer pine; But I'll believe I have her Heart, As well as she hath mine.

BACCHUS _turn'd Doctor. The Words by_ BEN. JOHNSON.

[Music]

Let Soldiers fight for Pay and Praise, And Money be Misers wish; Poor Scholars study all their Days, And Gluttons glory in their Dish: _'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_ _Therefore give us chearing Bowls._

Let Minions marshal in their Hair, And in a Lover's lock delight; And artificial Colours wear, We have the Native Red and White. _'Tis Wine_, &c.

Your Pheasant, Pout, and Culver Salmon, And how to please your Palates think: Give us a salt _Westphalia-Gammon_, Not Meat to eat, but Meat to drink. _'Tis Wine_, &c.

It makes the backward Spirits brave, That lively, that before was dull; Those grow good Fellows that are grave, And kindness flows from Cups brim full, _'Tis Wine_, &c.

Some have the Ptysick, some the Rhume, Some have the Palsie, some the Gout; Some swell with Fat, and some consume, But they are sound that drink all out. _'Tis Wine_, &c.

Some Men want Youth, and some want Health, Some want a Wife, and some a Punk; Some Men want Wit, and some want Wealth, But he wants nothing that is drunk. _'Tis Wine, pure Wine, revives sad Souls,_ _Therefore give us chearing Bowls._

JENNY _making Hay._

[Music]

Poor _Jenny_ and I we toiled, In a long Summer's Day; Till we were almost foiled, With making of the Hay; Her Kerchief was of Holland clear, Bound low upon her Brow; Ise whisper'd something in her Ear, _But what's that to you?_

Her Stockings were of Kersey green, Well stitcht with yellow Silk; Oh! sike a Leg was never seen, Her Skin as white as Milk: Her Hair as black as any Crow, And sweet her Mouth was too; Oh _Jenny_ daintily can mow, _But_, &c.

Her Petticoats were not so low, As Ladies they do wear them; She needed not a Page I trow, For I was by to bear them: Ise took them up all in my Hand, And I think her Linnen too; Which made me for to make a stand; _But_, &c.

King _Solomon_ had Wives enough, And Concubines a Number; Yet Ise possess more happiness, And he had more of Cumber; My Joys surmount a wedded Life, With fear she lets me mow her; A Wench is better than a Wife, _But_, &c.

The Lilly and the Rose combine, To make my _Jenny_ fair; There's no Contentment sike as mine; I'm almost void of Care: But yet I fear my _Jenny's_ Face, Will cause more Men to woe; Which if she should, as I do fear, _Still, what is that to you?_

_The Knotting_ SONG. _The Words by Sir_ CHARLES SYDNEY.

[Music]

Hears not my _Phillis_ how the Birds, Their feather'd Mates salute: They tell their Passion in their Words, Must I alone, must I alone be mute: Phillis _without a frown or smile,_ _Sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while._

The God of Love in thy bright Eyes, Does like a Tyrant Reign; But in thy Heart a Child he lies, Without a Dart or Flame. _Phillis_, &c.

So many Months in silence past, And yet in raging Love; Might well deserve one word at last, My Passion should approve. _Phillis_, &c.

Must then your faithful Swain expire, And not one look obtain; Which to sooth his fond desire, Might pleasingly explain. _Phillis_, &c.

_The_ FRENCH KING _in a foaming Passion for the loss of his Potent Army in the_ NETHERLANDS, _which were Routed by his Grace the Duke of_ MARLBOROUGH.

[Music]

Old _Lewis le Grand_, He raves like a Fury, And calls for _Mercury_; Quoth he, if I can, I'll finish my Days; For why should I live? Since the Fates will not give One affable smile: Great _Marlborough_ Conquers, Great _Marlborough_ Conquers, I'm ruin'd the while.

The Flower of _France_, And Troops of my Palace Which march'd from _Versales_ Who vow'd to Advance, With Conquering Sword, Are cut, hack'd and hew'd, I well may conclude, They're most of them Slain: Oh! what will become of, Oh! what will become of, My Grand-Son in _Spain_.

My fortify'd Throne, Propt up by Oppression, Must yield at Discretion, For needs must I own, My Glory decays: Bold _Marlborough_ comes With ratling Drums, And thundering Shot, He drives all before him, He drives all before him, Oh! Where am I got?

He pushes for Crowns, And slays my Commanders, And Forces in _Flanders_; Great Capital Towns, For _CHARLES_ has declar'd: These things like a Dart, Has pierced my Heart, And threatens my Death; Here do I lye sighing, Here do I lye sighing, And Panting for Breath.

This passionate Grief, Draws on my Diseases, Which fatally ceases My Spirits in chief, A fit of the Gout, The Gravel and Stone, I have 'tis well known, At this horrid News, Of _Marlborough's_ Triumph, Of _Marlborough's_ Triumph, All Battles I lose.

Wherever he comes, He is bold and Victorious, Successful and glorious, My two Royal Thumbs With anguish I bite: To hear his Success; Yet nevertheless, My passion's in vain: I pity my Darling, I pity my Darling, Young _Philip_ in _Spain_.

I am out of my Wits, If e'er I had any; My Foes they are many, Which plagues me by fits, In _Flanders_ and _Spain_: I'm sick at my Heart, To think we must part, With what we enjoy'd, Towns, Castles, are taken, Towns, Castles, are taken, My Troops are destroy'd.

I am I declare, In a weak Condition, Go call my Physician, And let him prepare Some comfort with speed, Without all delay, Assist me I pray, And hear my Complaint, A Dram of the Bottle, A Dram of the Bottle, Or else I shall faint.

Should I slip my Breath, At this dreadful Season, I think it but Reason, I should lay my Death, To the daring Foes, Whose Fire and Smoak, Has certainly broke, The Heart in my Breast: Oh! bring me a Cordial, Oh! bring me a Cordial, And lay me to Rest.

_A_ SONG. _Set by Captain_ PACK.

[Music]

Would you be a Man in Fashion? Would you lead a Life Divine? Take a little Dram of Passion, (a little dram of Passion) In a lusty Dose of Wine If the Nymph has no Compassion, Vain it is to sigh and groan: Love was but put in for Fashion, Wine will do the Work alone.

_A_ SONG.

_Set by Mr._ THO. FARMER.

[Music]

Though the Pride of my Passion fair _Sylvia_ betrays, And frowns at the Love I impart; Though kindly her Eyes twist amorous Rays, To tye a more fortunate Heart: Yet her Charms are so great, I'll be bold in my Pain, His Heart is too tender, Too tender, that's struck with Disdain.