( 118 )

The Miser and the Mouse.

TO a Mouse, says a Miser, my dear Mr. Mouse,

Pray what may you please for to want in my House?

Says the Mouse, Mr. Miser, pray keep yourself
quiet;

You are safe in your Person, your Purse and
your Diet.

A Lodging I want, which ev'n you may afford,
But none wou'd come here to beg, borrow, or
board.

The Long Noled FAIR.

ONCE on a Time, I fair Dorinda kils'd,
Whose Nole was too distinguifh'd to be
mils'd;

My dear, says I, I fain wou'd kils you clofer,
But tho' your Lips fay---Aye---your Nole
fays---no, Sir.

The Maid was equally to Fun inclin'd.

And placed her lovely lilly Hand behind :

Here, Swain, she cry'd, may'ft thou securely
kils,

Where there's no. Nole to interrupt thy Blifs.

The

( 119 )

The UNLUCKY BLUNDER.

IN Italy, as Authors tell us,
There liv'd a Painter wondrous jealous;

Twas the chief Bufeins of his Life,
How to confine that Eel, his Wife ;

Inventive Noddle teems at laft,

With an odd Whim to hold her faft,

Reſolv'd his Pencil Art to ſhow,

(Whate'er he can't perform below)

He drew a Mule, with dext'rous Skill,

On the soft Brow of Venus' Hill.

Thus if she ſtray'd, he could for certain,

Know it by drawing up the Curtain.

But, ah! how vain our Councils are,

And all our Plots againſt the Fair.

Comes brother Brufh to take a Bout.

So, G—d knows how! they rubb'd it out.

But, as he was an honest Brother,

Finding one gone, he drew another;

Forgetting what the firſt did lack,

He clapp'd a Saddle on his Back.

Chloe was hugely pleas'd, and ſmil'd

To think how Seignior was beguil'd;

Who reeling home one Ev'ning late,

With mellow Looks, and jealous Pate,

Vow'd he'd not take a Wink of Sleep,

Without one dear departing Peep.

Can you diftruſt me, Chloe cries,

Inhuman Man! and wipes her Eyes ?

Put on your Spectacles, and view it;

The Mule, my Dear, is where you drew it.

The

(120)

The Mule I see is safe my Dear,
But, Z—ds, who put the Saddle there?

MARY the COOK, to DICK the Farmer,
An EPISTLE.

RICHARD, of all Mankind, the moſt
compleat;

Plump as a Partridge, and as Sugar sweet;
Thy Breath is fragrant as the new-mown Hay,
Thy roguish Eyes have ſtol'n my Heart away;
ThyDunghill Mounts of sweet Perfume appear;
Thy Hogs grunt Muſic to my love-fick Ear,
Where'er you tread a fragrant Odour flies,
Sweet as the Vapours from my sweeteſt Pies;
On Sunday laſt it was you threw me down,
My Apron tore, and all bedaub'd my Gown;
Then would I fain have told you, you was rude,
And ſlapt your Face—Ah faith I wifh I could !
What could I do ! Your Hugging ſlopt my
Breath,
Nor cou'd I move, had I been hugg'd to Death;
Since that dear Time, my Heart has known no
reſt,

But has been broiling in my flaming Breast;
Since that sweet Time I neither ſleep nor eat,
I ſpoil my Puddings, and I burn my Meat;
What Mischief Love creates in human Hearts,
My Maſter ſwears he cannot touch my Tarts;
Whate'er I dresſs ſince then, I am ſure to ſpoil,
Nor can I roaſt, or bake, or ſtew, or boil :

By

2

(121)

By Day, by Night, whate'er I think or do,
My Thoughts are always gadding after you;

(Amelia) and the gentle Folk above,
Say they are pos' that Moll is deep in Love;
In vain I vow, proteſt and ſwear in vain,
They fee my Vows are much againſt the Grain;
Then to my Arms, and to my Wifhes fly,
I'll fill thy Pockets with a Christmas Pye;

Of fineſt Flour a Pudding I will make,
Store it with Plumbs, and bake it for thy Sake;
For oft I've heard—(O bleſs that charming
Voice)

A bak'd Plumb-Pudding was my Dicky's Choice.
Come then; O come, and charm my long-
ing Eyes;

Come fave my Soups, my Puddings and my
Pies;

One Smile from you my Senſes will reſtore,
And I ſhall cook, as I have cook'd before.

MARY DERRY.

## KISS for KISS. A TALE.

A S Celin faunter'd with his Bride,
A rural 'Squire the Couple ſpy'd;
When tripping to 'em, Col, ſays he,
This Beauty thine ? it ne'er can be.
Troth ! but ſhe is, cries Lubber-lout;
Then, quo' his Lordſhip, turn about,
And let me kifs her Damafk Lip :
I muſt, I will—but juſt a Sip.

M

When

(122)

When I am marry'd, here's my Hand,
A Kif's shall be at thy command.
Nay, an 'tis so, cries honest Col,
You're welcome, sure, to buſs our Doll.

The 'Squire his eager Lips applies :
Quick to her Cheeks the Colour flies :—
“ Thank ye, sweet Sir,”—away she hies,
But now his Worſhip, Folks declare,
Is married to a beauteous Fair.
Brisk Colin haſtes; he fees the 'Squire;
The Lady comes; his Heart's on Fire.
Quoth Col, and grins,—good Zir, I wot,
You have not yet your Word forgot.
No, no :—why then I'll kifſ the Dame:
He smuggles 'till she cries—for Shame.
The Clown retires with aukward Bow;
A worthy Gentleman, I trow :
But when our Delly's Lips he preſs'd,
I wifh he'd carry'd on the Jeſt;
For had they ſlipt between the Sheets,
O! I had taſted Honey Sweets!

## LYARS Compared.

SUCH a Liar is Will—there's none can lie
after,
Excepting his Maid—and she'll lie with her
Master.

## On CHLOE.

PRITHEE's not *Chloe's* a comical Cafe ?
She lends out her Tail, and borrows her
Face.

On

(123)

## On FAUSTUS and FLORA.

FAUSTUS ſtabb'd Flora; and would you
know why?

He, being a Soldier, she gave him the Lye:
Nay, the desperate Wench ſtill would not re-
frain,
To give him the Lye, till he ſtabb'd her again.

## EPIGRAM.

SAYS Sir John to my Lady, as together they
fat,

My dear shall we ſup firſt, or do—you know
what?

With an innocent Smile, reply'd the good
Lady;

Sir John what you please; — but Supper's not
ready.

Joan's as good as my Lady in the Dark.

TALK of blooming Charms and Graces,
All is Notion, all is Name;
Nothing differs but their Faces,
Every Woman is the same.

## EPIGRAM.

COME Meg be quick, and make the Bed,
Now tuck the Feet, now place the Head;
I'll kifſ you if you don't beſtir ye,
Quoth Meg, I can't abide to hurry.

M 2

WIT

( 124 )

WIT upon WINDOWS.

At the White-Hart at Broadway.

WHoe’er has travel’d Life’s dull round,
Thro’ rough and smooth, thro’ thick
and thin;
Muſt own, at laſt he ſurely found,
The warmest Welcome in an Inn.

To Mis S—

IN various Paffions, for Relief,
Your Fingers your employ;
You put them in your Eyes for Grief,
And in your —— for Joy.

At the White Hart, Chipping-Norton.

CHLOE has a thouſand Charms,
' I is Heav'n to lie within her Arms;
And ſhe's ſo charitably giv'n,
She wifhes all Mankind in Heav'n.

Oxonian Fools, methinks, take wond’rous Pains,
To ſhew the World they have more Guts than
Brains;

For who but Fools wou’d write their Names on
Glaſſes,

For the next ſcribling Fool to underwrite ’em—
Aſſes.

Chloe

( 125 )

Chloe has Charms in ev’ry Place;
Nay! ſhe’s all that Woman wou’d be;
She’s Jacob’s Beauty in her Face,
And Efau’s where it ſhould be.

To V and V,
And L V
The firſt of
Letters add;
It is a Thing,
Will please a King,
And make a young Man mad.

Beatus eſt qui te videt,
Qui te basiat Semi-Deus eſt
Qui te potitur eſt Deus.

At the Red-Lion, High-Wickham.

THE Diamond, ſcribling Wit’s great Aid,
For ſcribling Wits was never made:
Each ſcribling Wit is ſure an Aſs,
To ſhew his Wit upon a Glaſs.
Lay down the Stone, thou Fool, and fee
How nearly it refembles thee:
The Outſide bright, the Heart a Stock,
Thy Form divine, thy Head a Block.

A Coxcomb thou, a bawdy Fool,
“Whom Nature meant to ſhew but Fool;” Pope:
Shun hence the Name of bawdy Wit,
And let the Virgin quiet fit.
Wit, in its native Colour dreſt,
And by judicious Hands expreſt,

M 3

Can

( 126 )

Can never fail to give Delight,
And pleasing Notions to excite,
But when it's base, without Dispute,
The Wit is fluff, the Author—Brute.

At the George, Whitchurch.

IF a Man dies when Breath from him departs,
Then he must die as often as he f—ts;
And, if to f—t be to lose one's Breath,
Death is a F—t—and so a F—t for Death.

At the Black-Lion and Swan, Congleton.

SHE, that thinks upon her Honour,
Needs no other Guard upon her;
She, that has a Man upon her,
Never thinks upon her Honour.

ANOTHER.

To little Paffions Abfence gives a Cure,
To great ones adds, and makes 'em to endure:
So Wind put out the Candle's glimm'ring Light,
But makes the raging Furnace burn more bright.

At the Talbot, Bridgnorth.

WOMEN fhou'd their Time divide,
'Twixt Work and Pleasure to grow rich;
Playing, when they ought to play,
Stitching, when they ought to flitch.
MEN, their Time fhou'd likewise share,
'Twixt a Miftres, and a Friend;
Sparing, when they ought to ſpare,
Spendin', when they ought to ſpend.

At

( 127 )

At the Golden-Lion, Liverpool.

FORTUNE like Glafs is to a Tittle,
Like Glafs 'tis ſhining, and like Glafs 'tis
brittle.

SEE ev'ry Fool now itches to deride,
And fain wou'd be upon the laughing Side.

OF all the Paffions ſent us from above,
The greatest, nobleft, and the beſt is Love.

WHAT guards the Purity of tender Maids,
At courtly Balls and midnight Masque-
rades ?
'Tis not the Hoop—full oft we've known it fail,
Tho' ſtiff with Bone, and arm'd with Ribs of
Whale.

At the Stafford-Arms, Wakefield.

WHAT damn'd deceitful Things ye Women are !

Underneath:

E MPTY Scribler, dull infipid Aſs,
Thus to exprefs thy Ign'rance on Glafs.

Under that.

THOU worthy Youth, or whatſoe'er thou be!
Thou'rt Woman's Friend, and that's eno'
for me.

SALLY SMITH.

At

( 128 )

*At the Red Lion, Warrington.*

IN spite of all the amorous Things he said,
I am resolv'd to live, and die a Maid,

INDECENT Words admit of no Pretence,
For Want of Decency, is want of Sense.

A Diamond, and a Pane of Glaſs,
Is Pen and Ink for ev'ry Aſs.

*In Wigan Church.*

UNDER this Plonk,
Lies Billy Bonk.

What young Bil'l?

Fie! Fie! Nay! Nay!

What auld Bil'l?

Yea! Yea! Yea! Yea!

*At Brampton-Bryan.*

HERE lies the Body of All Fours,
Who loft his Money and pawn'd his
Cloaths;

If any one should ask his Name,
'Tis highſt, lowſt, Jack and Game.

SCOTCH

( 129 )

## SCOTCH EPITAPHS.

*In Beltenmont Church.*

HERE lies interr'd, in this Kirk-Yard,
Auld Beltenmont that graceleſs Laird.

Full fourſcore Years it was his Life,

And for ev'ry Score he had a Wife ;

And aw that Time he ſweard and leed.

And bad G—d d—n 'em when he deed.

*At Dornock.*

HERE lies the Laird of Dornock, interr'd
by Side of which;

And he was a great Oppreſſor of death pear
and rich:

How he fains, or how ſhe fares,

There's neabody kens, and as few cares.

*At Drifſle.*

HERE lies I ſonny Bell of Brochle-Brow,
in oner this Stean,

There were ſev'n o' mine aun Sons that laid it
o' my Weam :

I was ay a Mon o' my Meat, and ay Mifter
o' my Wife,

And I liv'd aw my Days but other Stert or Strife.

*Now to my eldeſt Sen:*

An thou can do better o' thy Time than I ha'
dean o' mine,

E'en take this Stean off o' my Weam, and lay
it on o' th'ne.

At

( 130 )

At Greatney.

Near this Place lies **Bessy Anderson**.

THE
HE Place where she does lie,
There's nean alive can tell;
Untill the Day of Judgment,
That **Bessy** rife <u>hersel</u>.

The ROSE.

THE Rose's Age is but a Day,
Its Bloom the Pledge of its Decay :
Sweet in Scent, in Colour bright,
It blows at Morn, and fades at Night.

The Disappointed MILK-MAID.

* In medio tutissimus ibis.

IT happen'd on a Summer's Day,
A Country Lafs as fresh as May,
Deck'd in a wholesome Ruffet Gown,
Was going to next Market Town.
So blith her Looks, so simply clean,
You'd take her for a May-Day Queen,
Save, 'ftead of Garland (fays my Tale)
Her Head bore Bridy's loaded Pail.
As on her Way the pafs'd along,
She hum'd the Fragments of a Song:
She did not hum for Want of Thought,
Quite pleas'd with what to Sale she brought;
And reckon'd by her own Account,
When all was fold, the whole Amount.

* Media eſt via trita apud Anglicanos.

ROCHESTER.

Thus

( 131 )

Thus she—In Time this little Ware
May turn to great Account with Care.
My Milk being fold for—so and so,
I'll buy some Eggs as Markets go,
And fet them—At the Time I fix
These Eggs will bring as many Chicks;
I'll spare no Pains to feed them well,
They'll bring a vaſt Profit when they fell :
With this, I'll buy a little Pig,
And when 'tis grown up fat and big,
I'll fell it, whether Boar or Sow,
And with the Money buy a Cow.
This Cow will furely have a Calf,
And there's the Profit's half in half;
Besides there's Butter, Milk and Cheeſe,
To keep the Market when I pleaſe.
All which I'll fell, and buy a Farm,
Then ſhall of Sweet Hearts have a Swarm;
O ! then for Ribbands, Gloves and Rings,
Ay ! more than twenty pretty things.
One brings me this, another that,
And I ſhall have—the Lord knows what !
Fir'd with the Thoughts, the frantic Lafs,
Of what was thus to come to pafs,
Her Heart beat ſtrong, ſhe gave a Bound,
And down came Milk-Pail on the Ground.
Eggs, Fowls, Pig, Hog, (ah ! well a day !)
Cow, Calf, and Farm,—all ſwam away.

New

( 13² )

New and Favourite SONGS, sung by Mr. Beard, Lowe, Mifs Stevenfon, &c. at the Pubick Gardens and Theatres.

A new Dialogue in Harlequin Sorcerer, sung by Mr. Lowe and Mrs. Lampe.

I.

He. D Eareft Daphne turn thine Eyes,
Jocund Day begins to rife,
See the Morn with Rofes crown'd
Sprinkling Dew-drops on the Ground:
Love invites to yonder Grove,
Where only Lovers dare to rove:
Let us haſte, make no Delay,
Cupid's Call we muſt obey.

II.

Sbe. Ah! Philander I'm afraid,
There poor Laura was betray'd
By young Strephon's subtle Wiles,
Soothing Words and artful Smiles;
Simple Maids are soon undone,
When their simple Hearts are won.
Preſs me not, I muſt away,
And Honour's ſtrict Commands obey.

III.

He. Gentle Daphne, fear not you,
I'll be ever kind and true.
Think no more on Laura's Fate,
View yon Turtle and its Mate,

I

See

( 133 )

See how freely they impart
Th' Impulse of each others Heart:
Like them, my Fair, let's sport and play
Nature prompts us to obey.

IV.

Sbe. Shepherd I perceive your Aim,
You and Strephon are the fame,
You, like him, wou'd me betray,
Shou'd I truſt whate'er you ſay:

He. If Daphne doubts, let Hymen's Bands
This Inſtant join our willing Hands.

Sbe. The Invitation I obey,
And Love with Honour will repay.

Both. No longer then the Moments waſſe,
But to the Altar let us haſte,
The Invitation we obey
And Love with Honour each repay.

The NUN.

Sung by Mifs Stevenfon.

I.

SURE a Lafs in her Bloom, at the Age of
Nineteen,
Was ne'er ſo diſtrefs'd as of late I have been;

N

I know

( 134 )

I know not, I vow, any Harm I have done,'
But my Mother oft tells me she'll have me a
Nun.
But my Mother, &c.

II.

Don't you think it a Pity a Girl, such as I,
Should be sentenc'd to pray, and to faſt and to
cry,
With Ways ſo devout, I'm not like to be won,
And my Heart it loves Frolic too well for a
Nun.

III.

To hear the Men flatter, and promife and ſwear,
Is a thousand Times better to me I declare;
I can keep my ſelf chafte, nor by Wiles be
undone,
Nay besides, I'm too handsome, I think for a
Nun.

IV.

Not to love, nor be lov'd, oh I never can bear,
Nor yield to be ſent to one cannot tell where;
To die or to live, in this Cafe, were all one,
Nay I rather would die, than be reckon'd a
Nun.

V.

Perhaps but to teaze me, she threatens me so,
I'm ſure, were she me, she would ſtoutly ſay no;
But if she's in earneſt, I from her will run,
And be marry'd in ſpite, that I mayn't be a
Nun.

KITTY

( 135 )

KITTY FELL.

Sung by Mr. Beard at Ranelagh.

I.

WHILE Beaus to pleafe the Ladies write,
Or Bards, to get a Dinner by't,
Their well-feign'd Paſſion tell :
Let me in humble Verſe proclaim
My Love for her, who bears the Name
Of charming Kitty Fell.

II.

That Kitty's beautiful a d young,
That she has danc'd, that she has ſung,
Alas ? I know full well :
I feel—and I ſhall ever feel—
The Dart more ſharp than pointed Steel,
That came from Kitty Fell.

III.

Of late I hop'd, by Reafon's Aid,
To cure the Wounds which Love had made,
And bade a long Farewell :
But t'other Day she croſs'd the Green,
I ſaw—I wifh I had not ſeen,
My charming Kitty Fell.

IV.

I aſk'd her why she pafs'd that Way,
To Church, she cry'd—I cannot ſtay,
Why don't you hear the Bell ?
To Church!—Oh!—take me with thee there,
I pray'd—she wou'd not hear my Pray'r,
Ah ! cruel Kitty Fell.

N 2

And

( 136 )

V.

And now I find 'tis all in vain,
I live to love and to complain.
Condemn'd in Chains to dwell:
For tho' she cafts a fcornful Eye,
In Death my fault'ring Tongue will cry,
Adieu dear Kitty Fell.

A BACCHANALIAN SONG.

GIVE us Glaffes my Wench, give us Wine
and we'll quench
The Remembrance of Pain and of Grief;
To the Winds with our Care, for we'll never
defpair,
While a Bottle can give us Relief.
While a Bottle, &c.

In our Revel and Joy, we'll forget the proud
Boy,
Let the Lethe, as Miracles work,
For as hollow I find, as the Bottles her Mind;
And her Heart is as light as a Cork.
And her Heart, &c.

Ariadne the gay, in Defpair as they fay,
For the Bully that left her behind,
Wou'd have hang'd, or have drown'd, but in
Bacchus she's found,
A new Lover as conftant as kind.

There

( 137 )

Thefe are Fables my dear, but the Moral is
clear,
It was Wine that her Peace did reftore;
When he left the poor Lafs, why she took off
her Glafs,
And she never remember'd him more.

Invitation to the CHACE.

Sung by Mr. Lowe, at Vauxhall.

RECITATIVO.

HARK the Horn calls—away!
Come the Grave; come the Gay,
'Wake to Mufick, that wakens the Skies,
Quit the Bondage of Sloth and arife.

SONG.

From the Eaft breaks the Morn,
See the Sun-beams adorn,
The wild Heath and the Mountain so high :
Shrilly ope's the ftaunch Hound ;
The Steed neighs to the Sound,
And the Wood, and the Vallies reply.

Our Forefathers so good,
Prov'd their Greatneſs of Blood,
By encountering the Pard and the Boar ;
Ruddy Health bloom'd the Face,
Age and Youth urg'd the Chace,
And taught Woodlands and Forefts to roar.
Henc

Henc

( 138 )

Hence of noble Descent,
Hills and Dales we frequent,
When the Bofom of Nature's reveal'd?
Tho' in Life's busy Day,
Man of Man makes a Prey,
Still let ours be the Prey of the Field.

The WHEEL-BARROW. A Cantata.

AS Porter Will along St Paul's did move,
Depreft by weighty Load, but more by
Love;

By chance the fair *Ceriffa* there he found,
Crying her fine Heart Cherries round and found :
*Will* joyous, inſtant pitch'd, then ſtrait careſs'd
her,

And leaning on her Barrow—thus addreſs'd her.
Thy Lips are Cherries, sweeter far,
Than thofe which in the Barrow are;
With ſuch a Store of Charms, 'tis well,
You may have ſtolen Hearts to fell :
Mine, dear *Ceriffa*, too, you know,
You ſtole it from me long ago;
And now I ſtop to aſk of thee,
To give it back, or marry me.

*Ceriffa* archly leering, as he ſpake,
While all the Cherry bluſh'd upon her Cheek,
The melloweſt Fruit, unnotic'd, cull'd apace,
And ſent like Thunder at his doleful Face;
Then graſp'd her Barrow—trundled ſoft along,
And looking round at *Will*, triumphant ſung:

Shall

( 139 )

Shall I poſſeſt of all theſe Charms,
Sleep nightly in a Porter's Arms;
M' ambitious Soul deteſts ſuch Scum,
And ſighs for Conqueſts yet to come.
Fair Youths my Sovereign Pow'r ſhall feel,
'Ten thouſand Hearts I daily ſteal,
And beauteous Nymphs ſhall envious ſee,
Crown'd Heads, and Dukes ſubmit to me.

CHLOE'S LAP-DOG.

“ I VOW, I'll ſcream; don't think I feign,”
Said *Chloe* to her favourite Swain,
As ſomewhat rude he grew;
“ Nay--fye--dear me!--why there then--there :
“ Now are you pleas'd? You're mad I ſwear :
“ Sit down, you Devil, do.

“ Are theſe your Tricks? that Hand--Sir--pray
“ I beg you'd take that Hand away,
“ Or I'll pinch you black and blue.
“ Before Mamma you look ſo grave !
“ But now I find how you'd behave :
“ Sit down, you Devil, do.”

Poor *Veny* ſaw th' unequal Fight,
And bark'd for Help with all her Might,
To her fair Miftrefſs true;
'Till *Chloe*, quite o'erpower'd and weak,
Cry'd, with ſcarce Strength enough to ſpeak,
“ Lye down, you Devil, do.”

Sung

( 140 )

Sung by Mr. Lowe at Vauxhall.

DEAREST Kitty! kind and fair!
Tell me when, and tell me where,
Tell thy fond and faithful Swain,
When we thus shall meet again?
Where shall Strephon fondly see
Beauties only found in thee.
Beauties only found in thee.
Kits thee, prets thee, toy and play,
All the happy live-long Day,
Deareft Kitty! kind and fair!
Tell me when, and tell me where.
Tell me when, and tell me where.

All the happy Day, 'tis true,
Bleſt, but only when, with you;
Nightly Strephon ſighs alone,
Sighs 'till Hymen makes us one.
Tell me then, and eafe my Pain,
Tell thy fond and faithful Swain,
When the Prieſt ſhall kindly join
Kitty's trembling Hand to mine ?
Deareſt Kitty! kind and fair !
Tell me when, I care not where.
Tell me when, I care not where.

F I N I S.