Part 3

Come upon a Worky-day, When I have my old Cloaths on; I shall not be so nice nor Coy, Nor stand so much upon: Then hawl and pull, and do your best, Yet I shall gentle be: Kiss hand, and Mouth, and feel my Breast, And tickle to my Knee: I won't be put out of my rode, You shall not rumple my Commode.

_A_ SONG _in the Dramatick_ OPERA _of_ KING ARTHUR. _Written by Mr._ DRYDEN.

[Music]

Fairest Isle, all Isles excelling, Seat of pleasures, and of Love; _Venus_ here, will chuse her dwelling, And forsake her _Cyprian Grove_.

_Cupid_ from his fav'rite Nation, Care and Envy will remove; Jealousy that poisons Passion, And Despair that dies for Love.

Gentle murmurs sweet complaining, Sighs that blow the fire of Love; Soft Repulses, kind Disdaining, Shall be all the Pains you prove.

Every Swain shall pay his Duty, Grateful every Nymph shall prove; And as these excel in Beauty, Those shall be renown'd for Love.

_A_ SONG _in the Comedy call'd the_ (Wives Excuse: _Or_, Cuckolds make themselves.) _Sung by Mrs._ BUTLER.

[Music]

Hang this whining way of Wooing, Loving was design'd a sport; Sighing, talking without doing, Makes a sily Idol court: Don't believe that Words can move her, If she be not well inclin'd; She herself must be the Lover, To perswade her to be kind: If at last she grants the Favour, And consents to be undone; Never think your Passion gave her, To your wishes, but her own.

_A_ SONG _in the Opera call'd the_ (Fairy Queen,) _Sung by Mr._ PATE.

[Music]

Here's the Summer sprightly, gay, Smiling, wanton, fresh and fair: Adorn'd with all the Flowers of _May_, Whose various sweets perfume the Air, Adorn'd with all the Flowers of _May_, Whose various sweets perfume the Air.

_A_ DOG _of_ WAR:

_Or, The Travels of _DRUNKARD, _the famous Curr of the Round _WOOLSTAPLE _in_ WESTMINSTER. _His Services in the_ NETHERLANDS, _and lately in _FRANCE, _with his return home._

_The_ ARGUMENT.

_An Honest, Well-knowing, and well-known Souldier, (whose Name for some Reasons I conceal) dwelt lately in _Westminster, _in the round Woolstaple, he was a Man only for Action, but such Actions as Loyalty did always justifie, either for his Prince, Country, or their dear and near Friends or Allies, in such noble designs he would and did often with Courage and good Approvement employ himself in the Low-countries, having always with him a little black Dog, whom he called_ Drunkard; _which Curr would (by no means) ever forsake or leave him. But lately in these French Wars, the Dog being in the Isle of_ RHEA, _where his Master (valiantly fighting) was Unfortunately slain, whose death was griev'd for by as many as knew him; and as the Corps lay dead, the poor loving Masterless Dog would not forsake it, until an English Souldier pull'd off his Masters Coat, whom the Dog followed to a Boat, by which means he came back to_ Westminster, _where he now remains. Upon whose Fidelity, (for the love I owed his deceased Master) I have writ these following Lines, to express my Addiction to the Proverb,_ Love me and Love my Dog.

To the Reader.

_Reader if you expect_ _from hence_, _An overplus of Wit_ _or Sence_, _I deal with no such_ _Traffique:_

Heroicks _and_ Iambicks _I_, _My Buskinde Muse hath_ _laid them by_, _Pray be content with_ Saphicke.

Drunkard _the Dog my_ _Patron is_, _And he doth love me_ _well for this_, _Whose Love I take for_ _Guerdon_;

_And he's a Dog of_ Mars _his Train_ _Who hath seen Men and_ _Horses slain_, _The like was never_ _heard on._

DRUNKARD _or the faithful Dog of War._

[Music]

Stand clear, my Masters 'ware your Shins, For now to Bark my Muse begins, Tis of a Dog, I write now: Yet let me tell you for excuse, That Muse or Dog, or Dog or Muse, Have no intent to bite now.

In Doggrel Rhimes my Lines are writ, As for a Dog I thought it fit, And fitting best his Carkass. Had I been silent as a Stoick, Or had I writ in Verse Heroick, Then had I been a Stark Ass.

Old _Homer_ wrote of Frogs and Mice, And _Rabblaies_ wrote of Nits and Lice, And _Virgil_ of a Flye: One wrote the Treatise of the Fox, Another prais'd the Frenchman's Pox, Whose praise was but a Lye.

Great _Alexander_ had a Horse, A famous Beast of mighty force Yecleap'd _Buce-_ _phalus_: He was a stout and sturdy Steed, And of an exc'lent Race and Breed, But that concerns not us.

I list not write the Baby praise Of Apes, or Owls, or Popingeys, Or of the Cat _Grammalkin:_ But of a true and trusty Dog, Who well could fawn, But never cog, His Praise my Pen must walk in.

And _Drunkard_ he is falsely nam'd, For which that Vice he ne'er was blam'd, For he Loves not God _Bacchus_: The Kitchin he esteems more dear, Than Cellars full of Wine or Beer, Which oftentimes doth wreck us.

He is no Mastiff, huge of Lim, Or Water-spaniel, that can Swim, Nor Blood-Hound nor no Setter: No Bob-tail Tyke, or Trundle-tayl, Nor can he Partridge spring or Quail, But yet he is much better.

No Dainty Ladies fisting-Hound, That lives upon our _Britain_ Ground, Nor Mungrel Cur or Shogh: Should Litters or whole Kennels dare, With Honest _Drunkard_ to compare, My Pen writes, _marry fough_.

The Otter-Hound, the Fox-Hound, nor The swift Foot Grey-Hound car'd he for, Nor _Cerberus_ Hell's Bandogg; His Service proves them Curs and Tikes, And his Renown a Terror strikes, In Water-Dog and Land-Dog.

'Gainst brave _Buquoy_ or stout _Dampiere_, He durst have Bark'd without Fear, Or 'gainst the hot Count _Tilly_: At _Bergen_ Leaguer and _Bredha_, Against the Noble _Spinola_, He shew'd himself not silly.

He serv'd his Master at commands, In the most Warlike _Netherlands_, In _Holland_, _Zeeland_, _Brabant_: He to him still was true and just, And if his fare were but a Crust, He patiently would knab on't.

He durst t have stood Stern _Ajax_ Frown, When Wise _Ulysses_ talk'd him down In grave _Diebus_ _illis_; When he by cunning prating won The Armour from fierce Tellamon, That 'longed to _Achilles_.

Brave _Drunkard_, oft on God's dear Ground, Took such poor Lodging as he found, In Town, Field, Camp or Cottage; His Bed but cold, his Dyet thin, He oft in that poor case was in, To want both Meat and Pottage.

Two rows of Teeth for Arms he bore, Which in his Mouth he always wore, Which serv'd to fight and feed too: His grumbling for his Drum did pass, And barking (lowd) his Ordnance was, Which help'd in time of need too.

His Tail his Ensign he did make, Which he would oft display and shake, Fast in his Poop uprear'd: His Powder hot, but somewhat dank, His Shot in (scent) most dangerous rank, Which sometimes made him feared.

Thus hath he long serv'd near and far, Well known to be a _Dog of War_, Though he ne'er shot with Musket: Yet Cannons roar or Culverings, That whizzing through the welkin sings, He slighted as a Pus-Cat.

For Guns, nor Drums, nor Trumpets clang. Nor hunger, cold, nor many a pang, Could make him leave his Master: In Joy, and in Adversity, In Plenty, and in Poverty, He often was a Taster.

Thus serv'd he on the _Belgia_ Coast, Yet ne'er was heard to brag or boast, Of Services done by him: He is no Pharisee to blow, A Trumpet, his good Deeds to show, 'Tis pity to bely him.

At last he Home return'd in Peace, Till Wars, and Jars, and Scars increase 'Twixt us, and _France_, in malice: Away went he and crost the Sea, With's Master, to the Isle of _Rhea_, A good way beyond _Callice_.

He was so true, so good, so kind, He scorn'd to stay at Home behind, And leave his Master frustrate; For which could I like _Ovid_ write, Or else like _Virgil_ could indite, I would his Praise illustrate.

I wish my Hands could never stir, But I do love a thankful Curr, More than a Man ingrateful: And this poor Dog's Fidelity, May make a thankless Knave descry, How much that Vice is hateful.

For why, of all the Faults of Men, Which they have got from Hell's black Den, Ingratitude the worst is: For Treasons, Murders, Incests, Rapes, Nor any Sin in any shapes, So bad, nor so accurst is.

I hope I shall no Anger gain, If I do write a word Or twain, How this Dog was distressed; His Master being wounded dead, Shot, cut and slash'd, from Heel to Head, Think how he was oppressed.

To lose him that he loved most, And be upon a Foreign Coast, Where no Man would relieve him: He lick'd his Masters Wounds in Love, And from his Carkass would not move, Altho' the sight did grieve him.

By chance a Souldier passing by, That did his Masters Coat espy, And quick away he took it: But _Drunkard_ followed to a Boat, To have again his Master's Coat, Such Theft he could not brook it.

So after all his wo and wrack, To _Westminster_ he was brought back, A poor half starved Creature; And in remembrance of his cares, Upon his back he closely wears A Mourning Coat by Nature.

Live _Drunkard_, sober _Drunkard_ live, I know thou no offence wilt give, Thou art a harmless Dumb thing; And for thy love I'll freely grant, Rather than thou shouldst ever want, Each Day to give thee something.

Thou shalt be _Stellifide_ by me, I'll make the _Dog-star_ wait on thee, And in his room I'll seat thee: When _Sol_ doth in his Progress swing, And in the Dog-days hotly sing, He shall not over- heat thee.

I lov'd thy Master, so did all That knew him, great and small, And he did well deserve it: For he was Honest, Valiant, Good, And one that Manhood understood, And did till Death preserve it.

For whose sake, I'll his Dog prefer, And at the Dog at _Westminster_, Shall _Drunkard_ be a Bencher; Where I will set a work his Chops, Not with bare Bones, or broken scraps, But Victuals from my Trencher.

So honest _Drunkard_ now adieu, Thy Praise no longer I'll pursue, But still my Love is to thee: And when thy Life is gone and spent, These Lines shall be thy Monument, And shall much Service do thee.

_A_ SONG _Sung by Mrs._ AYLIFF _in the Play call'd_ Love Triumphant: _Or_, Nature will Prevail, _Sett by Mr._ HENRY PURCELL.

[Music]

How happy's the Husband, how happy's the Husband, Whose Wife has been try'd, has been try'd, Not damn'd to the Bed, not damn'd to the Bed of an ignorant Bride; Secure of what's left, secure of what's left, he ne'er misses the rest, But where there's enough, enough, enough, but where there's enough, supposes a Feast: So foreknowing the Cheat, He escapes the Deceit; And in spight of the Curse he resolves, he resolves to be blest. And in spight of the Curse he resolves, he resolves to be blest. He resolves to be blest, he resolves, he resolves to be blest. If Children are blessings, his comfort's the more, Whose Spouse has been known to be fruitful before; And the Boy that she brings ready made to his Hand, May stand him in stead for an Heir to his Land: Shou'd his own prove a Sot, When 'tis lawfully got As when e'er it is so, if it won't I'll be hang'd.

_A New_ SONG, _to the Tune of the Old Batchelor._

[Music]

If ever you mean to be kind, To me the Favour, the Favour allow; For fear that to Morrow should alter my Mind, Oh! let me now, now, now, If in Hand then a Guinea you'll give, And swear by this kind Embrace; That another to Morrow, as you hope to live, Oh! then I will strait unlace: For why should we two disagree, Since we have, we have opportunity.

_A_ SONG, _Set to Musick by Mr._ Will. Richardson.

[Music]

I know her false, I know her base, I know that Gold alone can move; I know she Jilts me to my Face, And yet good Gods, and yet good Gods I know I Love.

I see too plain and yet am Blind, Wou'd think her true, while she forsooth; To me and to my Rival's kind, Courts him, courts me, courts him, courts me, and Jilts us both.

_A_ Scotch SONG.

[Music]

Fye _Jockey_ never prattle more so like a _Loon_, No Rebel e'er shall gar my Heart to Love: _Sawney_ was a Loyal _Scot_ tho' dead and gone, And _Jenny_ in her _Daddy's_ way with muckle Joy shall move: Laugh at the _Kirk-Apostles_ & the Canting swarms, And fight with bonny Lads that love their Monarchy and King, Then _Jenny_ fresh and blith shall take thee in her Arms, And give thee twanty Kisses, and perhaps a better thing.

_A_ SONG _in the_ Fairy Queen. _Sung by Mrs._ Dyer.

[Music]

I Am come to lock all fast, Love without me cannot last: Love, like counsels of the Wise, Must be hid from vulgar Eyes; 'Tis holy, 'tis holy, and we must, we must conceal it, They prophane it, they prophane it, who reveal it, They prophane it, they profane it, who reveal it.

_A New_ SONG, _Set to the FLUTE._

[Music]

After the pangs of fierce Desire, The doubts and hopes that wait on Love; And feed by turns the raging Fire, How charming must Fruition prove: When the triumphant Lover feels, None of those Pains which once he bore; Or when reflecting on his Ills, He makes his Pleasure, Pleasure more, He makes his Pleasure, Pleasure more.

_A_ SONG _in the Comedy call'd_ Sir Anthony Love: _Or_, The Rambling Lady, _Set by Mr._ HENRY PURCELL.

[Music]

In vain _Clemene_, you bestow, The promis'd Empire of your Heart; If you refuse to let me know, The wealthy Charms of every part.

My Passion with your kindness grew, Tho' Beauty gave the first desire, But Beauty only to pursue, Is following a wandring Fire.

As Hills in perspective, suppress, The free enquiry of the sight: Restraint makes every Pleasure less, And takes from Love the full delight.

Faint Kisses may in part supply, Those eager Longings of my Soul; But oh! I'm lost, if you deny, A quick possession of the whole.

_A_ SONG, _Set to Musick by Mr._ GRAVES.

[Music]

My dear _Corinna_ give me leave, To gaze, to gaze on her I Love; The Gods cou'd never, never yet conceive, Her Worth, tho' from above; There's none on Earth can equalize, So sweet, so sweet a Soul as she; Who ever gains so great a Prize, Has all, has all that Heav'n can be.

Curse on my Fate, who plac'd me here, In a Sphere, a Sphere, so much below, My Love, my Life, my all that's dear; And yet she must not know: The torment for her I sustain, Shall ill, shall ill rewarded be; When loving, when loving, and not Lov'd again, Does prove, does prove, a Hell to me.

_A Mock Song to_ If Love's a sweet Passion.

[Music]

If Wine be a Cordial why does it Torment? If a Poison oh! tell me whence comes my Content? Since I drink it with Pleasure, why should I complain? Or repent ev'ry Morn when I know 'tis in vain: Yet so charming the Glass is, so deep is the Quart, That at once it both drowns and enlivens my Heart.

I take it off briskly and when it is down, By my jolly Complexion I make my Joy known; But oh! how I'm blest when so strong it does prove, By its soveraign heat to expel that of Love: When in quenching the Old, I creat a new Flame, And am wrapt in such Pleasures that still want a Name.

_The_ LOYAL _Subject's WISH. By Mrs._ ANNE MORCOTT.

[Music]

Let _Mary_ live long, She's Vertuous and Witty, All charmingly Pretty; Let _Mary_ live long, And Reign many Years: Wou'd the Cloud was gone o'er, That troubles us sore, When the Sun-shine appears; We shall be deliver'd, We shall be deliver'd, From fury and fears.

Heavens send the King home, With Laurels to crown him, Each Rebel to own him; And may he live long, And Reign many Years: When the Conquest is plain, And three Kingdoms regain'd; Let his Enemies fall, Then _CÊsar_ shall flourish, Then _CÊsar_ shall flourish, In spight of them all.

All glorious and gay, Let the King live for ever: May he languish never, never: Like Flowers in _May_, His Actions smell sweet: When the Wars are all done, And he safe in his Throne; Trophies lay at his Feet, With loud Acclamations, With loud Acclamations, His Majesty greet.

_The Shepherdess_ LERINDA'S _Complaint, by_ Walter Overbury, _Gent._

[Music]

_Lerinda_ complaineth that _Strephon_ is dull, And that nothing diverting proceeds from his Skull; But when once _Lerinda_ vouchsafes to be kind, To her long Admirer she'll then quickly find: Such strange alteration as will her confute, That _Strephon's_ transported, that _Strephon's_ transported, That _Strephon's_ transported and grown more acute.

_Love will find out the Way._

[Music]

Over the Mountains, And over the Waves; Over the Fountains, And under the Graves: Over Rocks which are steepest, Which do _Neptune_ obey; Over Floods which are the deepest, Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place, For the Glow-worm to lie: Where there is no space, For receipt of a Flye: Where the Gnat she dares not venture, Lest her self fast she lay: But if Love come he will enter, And will find out the way.

You may esteem him A Child by his force; Or you may deem him A Coward, which is worse: But if he whom Love doth Honour, Be conceal'd from the Day; Set a Thousand Guards upon him Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him, Which is too unkind; And some do suppose him, Poor Heart to be Blind: But if ne'er so close you wall him, Do the best that you may; Blind Love, if so you call him, Will find out the way.

Well may the Eagle Stoop down to the Fist; Or you may inveagle, The Phenix of the East: With Tears the Tyger's moved, To give over his Prey; But never stop a Lover, He will post on his way.

From _Dover_ to _Barwick_, And Nations thro'out; Brave _Guy_ of _Warwick_, That Champion stout: With his Warlike behaviour, Thro' the World he did stray; To win his _Phillis's_ Favour, Love will find out the way.

In order next enters, _Bevis_ so brave; After Adventures, And Policy grave: To see whom he desired, His _Josian_ so gay, For whom his Heart was fired, Love found out the way.

_The Second Part, To the same Tune._

The gordian Knot, Which true Lovers knit; Undo you cannot, Nor yet break it: Make use of your Inventions, Their Fancies to betray; To frustrate your intentions, Love will find out the way.

From Court to Cottage, In Bower and in Hall; From the King unto the Beggar, Love conquers all: Tho' ne'er so stout and Lordly, Strive do what you may; Yet be you ne'er so hardy, Love will find out the way.

Love hath power over Princes, Or greatest Emperor; In any Provinces, Such is Love's Power: There is no resisting, But him to obey; In spight of all contesting, Love will find out the way.

If that he were hidden, And all Men that are; Were strictly forbidden, That place to declare: Winds that have no abiding, Pitying their delay; Will come and bring him tydings, And direct him the way.

If the Earth should part him. He would gallop it o're: If the Seas should overthwart him, He would swim to the Shore: Should his Love become a Swallow, Thro' the Air to stray; Love would lend Wings to follow, And would find out the way.

There is no striving, To cross his intent: There is no contriving, His Plots to prevent: But if once the Message greet him, That his true Love doth stay; If Death should come and meet him, Love will find out the way.

_A_ SONG, _in the Play call'd the Tragedy of_ CLEOMENES _the Spartan Heroe: Sung by Mrs._ BUTLER, _Set by Mr._ H. PURCELL.

[Music]

No, no, poor suffering Heart, no change endeavour; Chuse to sustain the smart rather than leave her: My ravish'd Eyes behold such Charms about her, I can Dye with her, but not live without her, One tender Sigh of her to see me Languish: Will more than pay the price of my past Anguish, Beware, oh cruel Fair how you smile on me, 'Twas a kind look of yours that has undone me.

Love has in store for me one happy Minute, And she will end my Pain who did begin it; Then no Day void of Bliss and Pleasures leaving, Ages shall slide away without perceiving: _Cupid_ shall guard the Door, the more to please us, And keep out Time and Death when they would seaze us; Time and Death shall depart, and say in flying; Love has found out a way to Live by Dying.

_The Jolly Trades-men._

[Music]

Sometimes I am a Tapster new, And skilful in my Trade Sir, I fill my Pots most duly, Without deceit or froth Sir: A Spicket of two Handfuls long, I use to Occupy Sir: And when I set a Butt abroach, Then shall no Beer run by Sir.

Sometimes I am a Butcher, And then I feel fat Ware Sir; And if the Flank be fleshed well, I take no farther care Sir: But in I thrust my Slaughtering-Knife, Up to the Haft with speed Sir; For all that ever I can do, I cannot make it bleed Sir.

Sometimes I am a Baker, And Bake both white and brown Sir; I have as fine a Wrigling-Pole, As any is in all this Town Sir: But if my Oven be over-hot, I dare not thrust in it Sir; For burning of my Wrigling-Pole, My Skill's not worth a Pin Sir.

Sometimes I am a Glover, And can do passing well Sir; In dressing of a Doe-skin, I know I do excel Sir: But if by chance a Flaw I find, In dressing of the Leather; I straightway whip my Needle out, And I tack 'em close together.

Sometimes I am a Cook, And in _Fleet-Street_ I do dwell Sir: At the sign of the Sugar-loaf, As it is known full well Sir: And if a dainty Lass comes by, And wants a dainty bit Sir; I take four Quarters in my Arms, And put them on my Spit Sir.

In Weavering and in Fulling, I have such passing Skill Sir; And underneath my Weavering-Beam, There stands a Fulling-Mill Sir: To have good Wives displeasure, I would be very loath Sir; The Water runs so near my Hand, It over-thicks my Cloath Sir.

Sometimes I am a Shoe-maker, And work with silly Bones Sir: To make my Leather soft and moist, I use a pair of Stones Sir: My Lasts for and my lasting Sticks, Are fit for every size Sir; I know the length of Lasses Feet, By handling of their Thighs Sir.